When Winter Does, Wrestle Death Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

When winter does, wrestle death.
Snow lies falling with petals bereft.
Her mantle's a meadow--white lily.
Uprooting stars, in heaven's pity.
Fine, veils of silk are spun to order.
Wheeling moths—circle and flutter
Then they Ferris-wheel across the border.
Our souls are curdled in God's butter.
When winter does, wrestle death.
No heart will beat in shadows bereft.
The feeble will draw a second breath.
When winsome-winter wrestles death
The old cudgelled wings, given new,
Give them their goodbyes; say adieu.