In her old Ford Anglia,
pink paint chipping, peeling,
radio whispering songs of love and sadness,
a woman in her early forties ventures
into the long Vermont roads at night.
The subtle scent of cherries and vanilla fills the air.
Crumpled tissues occupy the passenger seat.
The car is slightly too warm - but not enough for her to care.
She is following only the trail
of the grinning yellow paint
against a smothering silent night.

Winnie hits the gas pedal,
and with a steady and forceful increase,
she becomes a stampeding bull.
The trees blur by as she speeds like a comet.

She doesn’t know where she’s going,
but she’s not gone astray.
Her faith was put in someone else for so long
that she can’t find her own heart.
She doesn’t know where she’s going,
but the darkness welcomes, beckons her
into the endless trail of the roads.
And she, not trusting herself yet,
Listens.