after the painting by John Everett Millais

The tree branches arch over the river,

almost close enough

to its dip dangling tips in water.

Milky white blooms

loom over the stream’s edge.

Abundant weeds and purple wisteria burst

from their home on the shore.

Moss sprawls over still water,

then freezes its crawl

upon reaching Ophelia’s stiff body.

Pale— it lies there

like the fossil of an ancient mosquito

trapped in amber and placed on a professor’s desk.

Her tangled and twisted hair hangs

in liquid encasing her.

Only her face could feel air.

The flowers she once held creep

on the water thick like syrup,

returning to shore, where they once belonged.

From anchored hands,

her empty fingers stretch— suspended in a release

almost close enough to touch the tips of the trees.