The Tale of Ophelia’s Children:

Mother Ophelia

roots for the globe.

It’s in her nature,

empathy.

In her eyes,

an ember flickers-

“Sorrow does not suit you.”

She rubs her belly

carrying low.

Pangea

she calls him

Bestows

a seed of knowledge.

To plant ideas of innovation.

Her guidance,

like pure psithurism

to his ears.

When trees fall,

she is fortress

for kolas to rest.

Her tears ethereal

as they burn like ash,

streaming down her cheeks

like mascara runs,

and markers, bleed through.

The chain of her paper hearts

bled thin, as it echoes in the stillness;

hushed into silence.

In life,

promised to the prince of Denmark.

Earnest he is not!

Gives Ophelia,

a luxurious mink cloak.

It did not float,

but sank into the moat

his betrothal

drown in his betrayal.

Just as algae floats,

and

frogs chorus.

She rides

on the back of tortious

who is notorious,

for carrying the weight

earth problems—

In the surf,

of waves of stars,

she throws a butterfly net, out in space!

Catching faint hopes of well wishers.

Mother Ophelia

roots for the globe.

It’s in her nature

empathy.

Her tears pouring,

like a petrichtor, pitcher

as they swell like the ocean.

Soothing the playful mink

in her arms-

“Sorrow does not suit you.”

she rubs her belly

carrying high,

bore a daughter Pandora.

Again,

gifts her daughter

with a secret,

in a whisper—

wisdom of a woman’s Intuition

“Behold inside,

are those,

who are confined to a box!”

Confusion unfolds,

“Mother, the box-

is empty?”

Only scent to linger is Cedar.

Ah yes, an Epiphany!