The things I do not tell
even to myself.
Are the same secrets 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 dusty secrets
in shadowed silence.
In the garden
the fluted speakers
of the morning glory
sing only a song of silence.
As I fall asleep
in the nighttime quiet.
Just the taunting voices
Of the nocturnal whip-poor-will
Never tell!
Never tell!
Never tell!