Winter

Winter is the bride, the innocent bride that dressed in white exhibits her purity with her tiara made of tiny flowers that tend to fall on her fronthead. She walks slowly to the altar of the mountains that await with anxiety for her to cover it with diminute stars and hide the scars left by the unmercifull winds. She sees the trees that tremble with cold waiting for her to embrace them with white furs. She allows us to cut her skin while skiing because like a magician she dresses her wounds and stops the bleeding with the white cristals of her breath.
She is the bride without a groom, she is the happy bride who does not need to love the night, she is loved by the moon, by the stars, and when the sun dares to come in sight he caresses her tenderly with soft rays of light, her whiteness turns into a pastel yellow, a sweet pink, making her look like cotton candy in the mouth of a child. She is like the clouds, swiftly passing by, but ¡beware! her temper may some times storm with fury without pity and destroy that which she had loved the day before. Winter is the bride, sweet and delicate, strong and bad, but she is the bride, she is the bride and when she comes next year we will hope she will come serene, to smile at life with pearly teeth, to keep her veil of mist and let us contemplate her beauty, beauty of a very white pure bride.