I make my way each day
through a world full of
mysteries. For instance —

south of here, I’m told,
snow doesn’t melt
when held in a flame.

Sometimes I shake with 
fear, sometimes I shake
with ecstasy.  Sometimes

I’m just shaken.  Right now,
for example, I’m scooping up snow
to see what’s true here.  

Outside in a T-shirt
and shorts, in January,
scooping up

carefully measured snow.
Shaking to see what might happen.
Nervous about what I might learn.

What if the snow never melts
in a gas flame, just sits there
and stays snow

instead of becoming steam?
What if the world makes no sense?
What does it mean

that it makes me
happy
to imagine that?

Open-mouthed and young 
I trudged into the Zero,
wrapped cap to gloves to soles
against the Zero, hollering
over the Zero wind, spoiling
for a swing and a hit
in a fight against the Zero.
I had not yet learned
that no one fights the Zero
who wants to survive it.
I was lucky. I did not fall
to it. Now, I watch the Zero
from where it’s warm
and keep my mouth shut
to keep the Zero
from getting in,
though I do tell my kids
to be wary and safe,
as it’s a cold world out there.
I think they’re still
listening to me,
though I do see them
at the windows
when they think I am not looking,
staring
into what I have forbidden
more often than ever before.