Seventeen stones

Seventeen stones I have today,
Each one's a different shade,
Every stone's a stone away,
And each shade a shade too gray.

The first three came in a wicker bowl,
The next two floated on the wind,
Five others swam through winter cold,
And six more were to satin pinned.

At once I cast them into a fire,
Who doesn't fear unnatural gifts?
But driftwoods make a poorly pyre,
For the stones returned the fire to drifts.

I placed them in an army line,
And painted all a glorious hue,
But color's only on whiteness fine,
The stony gray bled right through.

I swallowed each and every one,
Till sixteen did my stomach flood,
Their stoney essence came undone,
And ran, like ink, into my blood.

Seventeen stones I have today,
Sixteen live in me as parts,
What once was red now is gray,
And the Seventeenth is my heart.