Secrets

Some kinds of secrets aren't meant to be known,

But once known-they are unforgettable.

It seems easy-not telling of your own,

Knowing that-may not be correctable.

Secret names hide in she who is unclear,

Not yet meant to be presented to us.

She is who waits for the soul to come near,

Where the eyes can't see and the hands can't touch.

Mystery is a tall reflective glass.

It falls around us in seeping shadow.

It is the wind that blows the question past.

It is the kind of trust we borrow.

Now end as you began, in the first fall.

Your name; a mirror, reflecting us all.