Ophelia musings

Marquette Ophelia Sculpture, Michael Talbot

Ophelia

weeded, lovely, distance-bound,

beauty.

Rise,

Ophelia- fight

free yourself from those drench-ed garments,

weighted down by insults,

by sorrow,

     by the promise of what could have been.

Ophelia,

Stay. 

But do not be mermaid-like awhile

instead,

Stand.

Put down your burdens and down your feet-

seek the earthy bottom,

where the soil and your soul are still,

and be.

Be.

Ophelia, be!

And in being,

Oh,

Ophelia-

the life that you will see, stretched in front of you-

that is,

   that was-

      a perhaps

will meet you in the struggle and take your wrinkled hand

to cross the barren river of your heart.

Ophelia,

the tortured mind of Hamlet need not define the drier path that lies ahead-

The dictations of a father spoiled,

over bearing,

   over bothersome,

      over presented,

In departure-

does not need to strain the once

lovely

that was truth-

but drown-ed by his words.

Ophelia,

Oh.

If you only knew the whole of who you are,

if you could only see those that will

ponder

   and wonder

      in your wake-

         in your wade-

            in your weep-

and in your

wealth- 

   unspent.

Untimely 

and unhinged. 

Rise, Ophelia, 

rise!

And be the woman that you once could have been

in the time that was not giving.

Be the woman

you could have been-

While rising.

-Melissa Johnson, 2/4/24