Standing at the Trailhead of Winter

It always seems like the closer I get to the end of the semester, the more I put off doing what I should be doing--grading final papers--to write poetry or short fiction. More recently, I've been focusing on the poetry. The space between blood and bone She sits beside me, relaxed,  though a layer of weariness cloaks her like a worn, familiar sweater she can’t let go to Goodwill. A small smile is the switch bringing light to her dark brown eyes, and she looks at me, whispers  she is done with soul prostitution. One hand rests on the place that beneath,  past skin loosened from sacred creation, past flesh protecting the space of possibilities, is blood-warmed hope she planted,  guards now like Cerberus to keep safely inside where it roots, can take hold, nurtured until like ivy entwines with bone, with sinew, swaddling her heart, then spreading  into her limbs unchecked until orange ribbons exit  through her fin...

For over a month now I've been ignoring the call of my yoga mat. At least when I'm not attending the eight week long yoga 102 class I signed up for. I go to the classes, but at home, the mat has stayed rolled up nice and neat in its carrier. I heard it whispering to me to unroll it, to take some time to move away from that which seems determined to seep into my my soul and keep me from finding and practicing what is positive, loving, good. I just feel frozen. I've never felt unable to act, to trudge forward though my feet seemed encased in mud, like I have over the last month. I find myself standing in the kitchen, staring at the stove but not really seeing it. Or in the bedroom, staring at the bed but not moving to lie down. The other day I realized I had driven through an intersection with a four-way stop, but I couldn't recall if I had actually stopped then proceeded through. I remember passing a few houses just before the intersection, but several seconds from those...