Nostalgia

A biting chill.
But the unwillingness persists.
Determined to see the first rays of sun,
lighting the golden face of pine flooded mountain upfront,
hands are gently swayed
over the white powdery sea lying at the feet.
Devouring the shins a pointing focused pain is born,
but the eyes lay greedy as ever.
To see the colors that have not been painted;
crouching tightly over a cold stone;
only sound that breaks the silence
is that of the biting teeth.
The first bird chirps,
and then lies quiet for a while
as she find herself in a place complete unknown.
White powdery sea lying under her nest.
First rays of the sun breaks the tear
into a thousand different colors.
Smell of the maiden, virgin snow
sweet as ever...