Wishing to write a sibling to her previous brief poem, Summer Thunderstorm, Ristiinnä penned this poem in her new poetry journal. She meant for it to be positive, but colored by her own history it came out quite grim.
The air like pure clear ice, so cold and crisp,
with every breath a cloud of crystal mist,
a silent snowscape by pale moonlight kissed.
The drifting flakes at first a welcome sight,
but soon a blinding wall of swirling white,
a chill that saps the will and strength to fight.
A cold that freezes sinew, flesh, and bone,
the howling winds like haunting spirits moan,
in blizzard's prison trapped to die alone.
