When; winter does wrestle death..?
Snow lies falling with petals bereft.
Her mantle a meadows white lily
Uprooting stars in heavens pity.
Veils of fine silk they’re too spun to order…
Wheeling moths, circle, whilst they flutter.
Ferries-wheeled then they cross His boarder…
They’re souls curdled in god’s butter.
When winter does wrestle death..?
No one’s heart does feel bereft.
Even the old find warmth and weft
Drawing on that; His second breath.
(If it isn’t kismet it’s just bad karma
No need for a pilgrimage or partner…)