Ophelia.

You had fingers slender as willow leaves

and diaphanous, lily-white skin. Your hair

drifted like drenched reeds on a balmy,

languid current. Your lips were soaked,

bloated and pale, but for a streak of cranberry

red. You lay suspended; wreathed in rippling

violet, your lavender gown like a tranquil

field of hyacinth. Your eyes were numb

prisons, azure irises staring glassily into

the opaque waters of the brook, beneath

the winding willow tree. You had a song

on your lips as you fell from its branches,

a wistful ode to the herb-of-grace,

the amber flower of rue.