WHEN JANUARY IS REAL

In the crunchy first snow
making my way back
from a pilgrimage to Vermont
losing my old travel map
wandering in darkness
on a country road
watching a black bird
with mirrored eyes on a night
by the green mountains
by a withered elm branch
reciting Robert Frost
in my teaching memory
wanting a lost poem back
here in this wilderness
wanting the right exit
and brunch to go forward
as my car scuttles quickly
from tangled black ice
in a grove of birch shadows
my breath freezing
with an echoes wind
and persistent inner voices
whispers promised directions
once known by heart
praying my car will heat
and start up again
holding on
to my white metallic mirror
on the dashboard
to comb my wild hair
reaching out to
a tiny cat who quietly hisses
circling around me
my years wash away
by a burnished light
managing to make it home.