What is art but the breadcrumbs
we leave behind as we enter the dark forest,
in hope that we will be found—
or at least remembered.
Bach’s notes strewn along the path,
Georgia O-Keefe’s flowers
Mary Oliver’s perfect words
They will never be alone in the world to which they’ve flown.
And they keep us company in our aloneness, give us comfort
as we step, cautiously,
into the black woods,
steering us away
from the witch’s cottage.