From ocean-size to iris-size, blue, as wild as a wolf pup’s peepers, is beheld befittingly in Aryan tradition.
In fact, blues to all those true blue, blue bloods with their blue ribbons, blue chipping from the blue collar penny-wise till they’re blue in the face.
Blue is old guitarists picking somber pentatonic tones while twice imbibing brokenhearted balladry.
Blue was when Picasso moved to Paris and produced those sentimental works suffused in bale and bane.
Blue like the light from a late night TV screen living in Massachusetts in the tenement living room of a snoring lazy-boy who ate Fritos and Dr. Pepper for dinner.
Blue is as soft as fontanelles and as cold a glacial melt waters: as al dente as the tooth and as hot as astronomy.
Blue, with manifold miscellany and a kaleidoscopic of meaning, greets the philologist at every turn.