38

The rain will not stop for you, Ophelia. Outside.

Looking for your children. Soaking wet-- searching.

Crying a symphony for love. Not stopping to notice

the pieces of yourself, soul falling on the pavement,

mixing with the tears of the sky, who cries for you.

Who else listens, and who else knows of your intention?

Are the gray storm clouds alone your only sympathy?

Who sorrows for you, Ophelia? My love. The earth's love.

Spawn of the birches and dirt-dust. The ancient mother.

The new sun's daughter of remembered pasts.

Once whole, the fragments of your purpose now gather

in pools, streaming down the concrete driveway incline

out into the river, formerly known as Ray drive. Escaping.

Traveling faster away in muddied currents. Out of reach.

Going like yesterdays out into the nothing spaces of oblivion

because tomorrow will never be the same

like so many other things that will never be the same

because you are wet

because you are crying

because you cannot cry anymore

because your life is missing-- or torn away from you

by an unseen force; Some wrathful hand of a god

but what crime have you committed in your ignorance?

For this reason you search still, breaking yourself in silence

because you forever will remember their warmth

because you can never stop trying to forget

because without them you are only breathing, not living

like your heart, you will follow currents of polluted blankness

move faster and faster-- swimming and kicking-- to places

unknown by everyone, but you know are there

meet a full moon night from fonder memories

where the angels and your children shine as stars

beckoning you to join them

calling out "mother"

in bell music voices, and singing songs

that rhyme with "mother", and sound like "mother"

they glow and stretch their arms toward you

and cry out "MOTHER"

as you continue to drift into nothingness

-OPHELIA