Well, while we're on brown, I should post the poem I mentioned up above, Rhina Espaillat's "Brown":
Brown of the sparrow hopping where seeds lie,
of the fat woodchuck foraging, and brown
of marsh in April mirroring the sky.
Brown of my mother's eyes, of my still town
in heavy rains, of rust, of nested down
long after flight, of chocolate on chill nights
when I was young, of oak, of pews, of crown
around God's wounded brow by altar lights;
of log in the cold hearth the match ignites
like memory; of dried blood on a sheet;
of names on a long list the stone recites;
brown of the earth that waits, stroking the feet;
brown of late shadows gathering, of loam,
of that first sleep, of rest, of going home.
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