Story III

It’s difficult to say nothing, to look and write what the eyes see.
The snow receded and became something else. Invent your own metaphor.
On the other hand, it’s simple to say, The snow receded.
I sat on the back patio watching it melt, though it was still cold.
A bird somewhere to my left burst, incendiary, into song.
The air crackled with it, as if shaking off sleep too suddenly.
Again it happens. Air doesn’t sleep. Birds don’t ignite.
I sat on the back patio watching it melt. A bird sang.
A wind picked up. It was enough to force me back inside again,
despite the thickness of my sweater. I closed the sliding door thinking,
I gave up my armor too soon. As if I battled winter.
I shake off the trope like a dog shakes off melting snow.
But I don’t shake anything off. I think about this for a while,
and arrive at the conclusion that it’s difficult to say nothing.
There’s always something to be said into what is said.
Even when there’s nothing to be said I say it.