I wrote this and I will share it with you: you may send it where ever you will.

In a mist on hills and valleys below,
the breath of God creates the Snow.
In colour-flow, its not the same,
as a picture, painted, laid in a frame.

Boughs heavy laden, yet they have not broke,
as Sunshine has risen to take up the yoke.
Before the Snow melts, the die has been cast,
shadows will fade, and in part, they have past.

A season of spring, pure waters delight,
thawing, a river that ripples with might.
Freely it flows and to all who partake,
drink to its depths, refreshed, then awake.

For this is the morrow that bids us be well,
to live in a place and never to dwell.
A mist on a hill and lo,
the breath of God creates the Snow.