secrets

The things I do not tell

even to myself.

Are the same things the

Blossoms know when they

proliferate the cherry tree

Even as they prepare

to fall like confetti.

They are the

babbling secrets

Of the brook as its waters

bounce stunned

 into the rocks of the rapids.

Hush whispers the librarian

As the rows

and volumes of books

Keep their secrets

in silence

In the garden

The fluted speakers

Of the morning glory

Sing only silence

Falling asleep

in the night

Just the taunting voices

Of the whippoorwill

Never tell

Never tell

Never tell