A golden glow
Of sun on snow,
White cushions
On the dark green of pine trees,
Blue-lilac washes
Of the sky with its clouds
Lying around like downy snowdrifts,
In the background woodpecker’s sounds,
Staccato drumming on the trunk, 
The woods are fair
And cold, crisp air
With joy of living makes me drunk, 
The trail is crunching
As I go marching
Between the pillars of the pines, 
Leaving my sadness behind, 
Dismissing your eyes from my mind.