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...