The blue, the brown

For crying out loud:
blue, brown.
It’s dying, it’s reviving,
blue, brown.
The man, the woman, merging,
blue, brown.
Before- and afterlife
is blue, is brown.
The wood that has been touched
by living, by demise, and then – by human hand;
the china or the delft with stains of tea
and older lips along the rims;
the otherworldly blood on worldly earth,
and birds, and butterflies,
and copper-seen-it-all,
the solid and the running,
both changing,
the eyes, the hair.
The house we shall live in
built already and already painted
blue and brown-
it needs to grow scarred
so colours mesh
and cease to be just blue, just brown,
but brownblue.

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