The days of frost

Skin lingering with an edge of frost, awaiting to be touched,
but a pond action,
shivers and trembles like a quake in still waters.
Rejecting its intruder.
The quick withdrawal,
instantaneous as a frightened Hare.
The primal instincts that once where forgotten,
now burn within the host.
Incapability to run,
to ride as a fawn does ever so gallantly and agile between trees.
Awaked to be bound to what is not natural,
but illusion makes it to be dreamed off.

Long lost are the dawns of frost, where he would once run amongst the trees with a breath as deep as the waves.