The sun is climbing higher,
out of reach,
Fading to a pale and jealous flax.
Foxes flee into dens, fish settle under ponds.
Who wants to bear witness to winter’s herald?
The clock ticks steadily with the season’s turning.
Quickly! Time to gather the last flowers of fall.
Columbine roots and fennel flattery,
Earth’s cruel taunts of a long-forgotten summer.
Rough stems chafe against
a grownup hand,
And Ophelia climbs a tree.
The last apple hits the earth.
Swollen, its belly bursting with ripened flesh,
The bruised side breaks, the sweet rot stains soil,
The mute swan lays still. Turn it over.
See there. Worms slither through its stomach
— A carrion cuisine for the creeping undergrowth.
It’s slaughtering time:
An ax swings; a pig squeals;
A nation falls to its knees,
And Ophelia climbs a tree.
The creek babbles, wind chatters.
A barren branch sways and cracks.
Buzzards don’t worry battlement wraiths.
Snakes sleep soundly under snow.
Seasons change; this too shall pass.
What difference is one mad girl?
One vengeful boy? One dying Dane?
Yet still –
Ophelia climbs a tree.