The Blanket of Irony

As the moon emits an effervescent glow and the clock strikes twelve,
an uneasy chill persists, seeps in through every crack- the tangible cold that dwells.
The bones of ice, held together by sinewy cartilage- cannot be thawed,
for the dragon's breath, is the sunshine that is flawed.
See the lustrous heat, shimmers in waves and drifts in flakes,
as the frosted soul of life shivers and quakes.
A cocoon of comfort, the warmth of a blanket is why a baby sleeps,
as the infant makes an indistinct noise, dreams but does not weep.
There are many ironies, that is what I know,
but who can keep warm under a blanket of snow?