Nasturtiums in light snow

Cold bites to my bones, stings my skin, joking  
that summer was ever warm.
 
Beneath an iron sky, stragglers, jovial party people
linger by the cold windy door.
 
The warmth of their orange and red rages,
but diminished, by a light snowfall blanket.
 
It weighs them down,
their hot summery heads drooping under early winter’s white weight.
 
No cabbage white or tortoiseshell will visit these roguish
summer remnants;
 
the first frost will finish them soon enough—
smiting their tender leaves and stems to destruction.