She was beautiful, wrapped in winter, and he wondered if she would allow him the pleasure of watching her welcome spring.

I get wordy and super romantic as fall moves into winter.  I’m not sure why, but something in me blooms when everything else is cold and dying.  There’s mystery and an urgency to winter that I love.

A lot of people find spring and summer romantic.  I get it, skimpy clothing, tan bodies, sweat and oil.  Vacations and even weddings tend to happen when the sun is out and sweaters are packed away.  Warm sand and white linen can be very romantic, but I’m more of a cabin, Dr. Zhivago, raging fire, romantic.

I like what the cold does to faces and hands, even feet.  There is honestly nothing sexier than the pink of a man’s cheeks or his chapped hands during winter.  The idea of bodies drawn to the internal warmth of one another, while the outside is harsh and unrelenting, is intense.  In front of a fire, under the covers, fogged windows, rain and snow, hands clasped together, long standing leaning hugs, and socks.  I am captivated by all of these images.

This post isn’t meant to be naughty, although naughty is fun during winter too.  It’s more of a visceral response for me.  Fire light and smoke, the cold tip of my nose.  Allowing heat into closed off places in an effort to connect, endure and keep what is so vital near.

Winter is almost here and my sappy romantic heart is so silly, stupid happy.

My thoughts from the laundry room.  Get Cozy.

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