MargenIn winter the body pulls back like a country recalling its embassies and closing its minor borders.
The hands stay open, the face, a patch of neck if someone gets careless. Everything else goes underground into the wool.
That's why in winter a passing touch counts double and a hand on the cheek is almost an affair of state; that's why December loves move slowly and yet reach so deep: there are layers to cross, customs posts, scarves with a history.
The skin waits for its spring the way the almond trees wait: knowing it will hurt a little, so much light all at once, so much being back within reach of the world.