I call it the chameleon
of stones.
Stare too long, it only
keeps changing.
The tones the eye beholds
are simply what the
daylight is serving,
a bit of everything,
never repeats itself,
a state of being
those born under it
are prone to inherit.
One morning in October
I woke in such a state,
eyes blank but for what
the day served in
opaque hospital light,
no crying at first,
then unstoppably,
red stains on sterile things,
my nature to diffract
already at work
in the way I refused
to nurse, avoided
eye contact.
If born on time, the
sapphire would be
star of this story.