Snow And Ice

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?