Ophelia is swimming
In the green afternoon,
I watch her from the trees.
She can burn fire through water and
She is not afraid.
My legs dangle from above like white branches.
I do not jump.
I envy her too much.
And I return in years, in many years
Later. To collect the bones
That stack in piles like memories stack.
Each one is hollowed, the marrow- a feast
For the birds, and the splinters –
Their smooth shell becomes a cream
Colored afterthought.
What to do with such novelties of time?
Manufacture them on strings,
Gather wood for a fire, hope for wind,
And listen to the soft chimes of the past.