Ice Cold Out

Touching any metal un-gloved, Turns skin to tin, fingers on fire, Breathing inside what’s above, Kindles lungs to a stinging pyre. Exhaled steam is white as a dove. Some find refuge wearing eider attire, But hours exposure ends the tropical cove. After a while the icy novelty tires, As keeping calm means the need to move. Snowmen dread mercury higher, For melting’s their fateful groove. Winter’s funeral march has its criers, But in shivering’s end there is no lost love.