Lost

This is no fairy tale.
The crusted crumbs
cast on sodden umber moss
are now gone
and I feel my way
through blanketing darkness
and weighted slumber.

Against grooved lichened bark
my hands scrape
leaving trace
as I pass under
then over
felled elm and maple.

Earlier, I placed seeds
of yellow maize in rows
and waited.

The storm came
as fast as it left.
A tempest,
first welcomed
then feared
for its
hard rain.

-- Nancy Marks