there is no magic here, only waiting,
six foot, soft haired children, with shoulders broad and lips
inflated, pining for the snow to shrivel and disappear like some giant
white-bodied beast, suffocated by the sky
waiting to fling off in all directions, sparks spiraling up from the mother flame
the ferocious dancers, lunging towards the moon
waiting for love to overwhelm, to swallow
taking their hands and hair and eyes into its warm, gaping mouth and embrace
them like a womb
for the beginning of wisdom
for the end of all things cold
gripping one anothers hands
a row of three paper people, snipped into shape
by the holy hands of circumstance
or if you want to call it god...
waiting to be lifted onto the shoulders
of some great wind and carried to the sea
weightless
and
dancing