Brown Fingers

His caress bears the hours he toiled in the garden
brown traces left on lips furrowed with passion,

he carries the dusty road to my bed, it lies folded
in the khaki pants like crisp brown paper bag.

Bobs of copper light that dusty tiles distilled,
misty brown where his hand rested and drew

moistness on the skin honey, crusted with sugar
that he says will stir into his creamy brown coffee.  

Day 19 
Colour poem for NaPoWriMo

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