Coins

Two daughters’ eyes are blue.
Not the blue of jay’s wings or robin’s egg.
But the blue-gray of sky at daybreak
when night’s breath
still lingers over the horizon.

Another, brown, pure brown.
Mud, chocolate, pudding.
Brown straight off the painter’s palette.

And the fourth, gray-brown.
Like bark, a weathered coin.
A coin easily exchanged,
the blinking of an eye.

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