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Yearning

I yearn
For that cozy little town,
Tucked among the treetops
On that gentle mountainside.

I yearn
For the snug, warm bedroom,
Nestled in the attic,
Frost spidering the windows.

I yearn
For the serenity,
Of seeing nothing but rock all around,
And sapphire sky above.

I yearn
For the ski races,
And getting lost in the powder,
Just to get up again.

I yearn
For such kindness,
Where you know everyone,
And strangers are just new friends.

I yearn
For the little school,
Brick among the pines,
By the railroad tracks.

I yearn
For the spunky friends,
Where laughter is no stranger,
And everything is safe.

I yearn
For the little brook
That runs right through the town,
Uniting it all.

I yearn
For the tiny cafes,
With fresh bread and cookies,
And love to go around.

I yearn
For the language,
French in particular,
With gentle, sweet "Bonjours"

I yearn
For the ski pulls,
Where you can fall over
And nobody laughs at you.

I yearn
For the nature
And honesty of the mountainside,
Sprouting green from the snow.

I yearn
For the houses,
Hundreds of years old,
Identical peaks up the slope.

I yearn
For the cattle houses,
Scattered up the hillside,
Surrounded by cowlike shapes.

I yearn
For the surreality,
Of crisp Swiss air,
And a gentle giant below.

I yearn
For everything there,
From the blue ski bar sign
To the rabbits in the yard
To the crispy croissants
To the cheerful smiles
To the twisting roads
To the warm hearthside
To the smelly cheese
To the scent of campfires
To the crunch of ice
To the looming pines
To the friendships.

I yearn for the mountains.



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