There are secrets I do not tell
even to myself.
They are the same secrets
the cherry bossoms
know when they
proliferate the cherry trees.
Even as they prepare
to fall like confetti.

They are the
babbling secrets
Of  the mountain streams
as thier 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 her silence.

In the garden
The fluted speakers
Of the morning glory.
Sing only silence
Falling asleep
into dreaming nights.

Just about audible
the taunting voices
Of the
whippoorwill

Never tell
Never tell
Never tell.