Windows of the Soul

They say eyes are the windows of the soul.
With that statement I can truly agree.
Some see them just as a gaping hole,
But when I see them, I see knowledge as deep as the sea.

Some are brown, a color that is quite grand.
But they are the color of tree trunks in their crisp youth.
Sometimes they are light like desert sand,
Maybe dark, the color of wood so smooth.

Some are green, like the grass in the meadow.
Their shades many, the colors of the earth.
Dark, like an emerald serpent twisting through the shadow.
Green like the Irish in their never-ending mirth.

Some are blue, like the infinite sky where the birds fly free.
Crystal clear, like the water of a spring,
Or dark, like the tumbling azure waters of the sea.
Those are my favorite, smooth like songs angels sing.

Then there is hazel, a unique shade.
Coming to life like the moss at the bottom of the river.
From the pure earth this color must have been made,
Like the tender plants, their small chutes rising in slivers.

With all of this said, who would say that eyes are dead?
They are alive, the colors shining, telling their story.
I look into my love's eyes, and through his years I'm lead.
Eyes themselves, speak of God's true glory.