From my bed I gaze out my window,
Patches of evergreens add a dark color to the forest.
All the trees are bare,
Except for the oak, or is it maple?
Its leaves are dead and clinging.
Frost touches them all where the sunlight has not yet shone.
It reflects off of its ice crystals,
Sending a bluish-white tint through my window.
An illusion makes it seem like there is snow outside.
And I know there is not, but I long for it.
And my room has that chilly snow atmosphere, so I long for it.
I pretend that in fact it is snow,
And snuggle beneath my comforters and blankets,
Hiding from the sun that is sure to ruin my frosty bliss.
 
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