Bouquets Of Cold Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Now days are forgetting
Each footstep in spring
Arctic austere spreading
Iced pearls on a string
Flowers made from rime
Bouquets thus cold
For summertime its prime
Grown in to colors old

A heart in winters approach
Slowing down a beat
Passions warmth encroach
On empty verve street
The sky is getting cloudy
With darkness all around
The times of yore dowdy
In bleak hours playground

Now days to coldness go
Ice feathered window sills
Cracking in the nippy snow
In stern moments standstills