Ode to the Chameleon.
Little shape shifter, lingering there on your quotidian twig of
indifference, you are a glimpse of a rainbow, your eyes an iota of
amber. If nature is mind, it knows you are always true, daring the human
eye to see deeper. You are envy & solace approaching green, no more
than an eye blink in a corner of the Old World. You are a tilt of the
head & vantage point, neither this nor that, clearly prehistoric
& futuristic, & then you are gone. In your little theater of
osmosis, you're almost a piece of tropical work woven from the
alchemist's skin habit. Called into the hanging garden, you sit
there, almost unseen as dusky shadows climb the blooming Judas tree.