Cartwheeling (Poetry)

Out of the lighted cottage they come
cartwheeling through the snow —
mittens on their hands and feet
naked bodies all aglow
skin tinged with the orange reflected light
as the flakes fall soft and slow.

Down the path and into the street
like a line of dancers strung
and turning like cogs in the swirling air
they mechanically wheel along —
a dozen or more all keeping time
to the beat of a silent song.

Whether flesh and blood or creatures born
in a fantasy far from home
the vision holds the moment still
its genesis unknown
then the darkness melts them into trees
and the watcher’s left alone.