One of the things I get nostalgic about is the passing of the seasons. I'm always sad when the snow goes and I always miss the sound of the stream behind my house when it freezes over. Here's a little, wistful poem on this sort of theme.
I love to see the ground again,
though I love the snow as well.
I stop and stop and lay my hands
on copper needles warm
from light that lasts.
I gently press the tiny mosses
rebounding green each boreal year.
I dip my finger in a clump
of crystal snow, small as my boot,
that will be gone tomorrow.