when i was much younger, mamma would dress me up in brown. brown criss-cross sandals, dark brown pants and lighter brown shirts. and why not? for brown is the smell of the garden, sodden after last week’s rain. it is the feel of your hand, twined in mine. the taste of bread, fresh and warm. the bark of a tree, the tea in the kettle, the discarded boot in raglan. brown is drift wood and rusted chains. bells, stains, benches. brown is the earth. (and blue is the sky). and brown is the earth.