Post-Yoga

My cocoon awaits
that place where my breath and being converge.
It's crisp here
yet the cold doesn't penetrate.
All nerve endings are expectant, tingly.
My body is heavy and my mind is flying.

Thoughts are sluggish to arrive
yet defined upon appearance.
Emotions are coupled with them
and I often have tears slide down my cheeks.

It's a momentous effort to wiggle my fingers and toes, when instructed.
Like each digit is weighted down with a sand bag.
My mind is slow to return from it's expedition.
My body is reluctant to leave.

While the cocoon is the incubator
the butterfly is the creation.
I'm not sure the creation is worth anything
but it is so satisfying to know it's there.

November 4, 2018