I had a tale I had to tell,
a secret that I kept so well —
a moment in my younger years,
the acrid source of all my fears.
I told it to an old oak tree
who listened very carefully
but she could neither run nor tell
the secret that I kept so well.
I saw a bird one early morn
who asked what had me so forlorn.
I told him of my dream that night
that woke me screaming, cold and white.
But neither he could set it right,
for birds could sing, but not recite,
the tale that he could not retell —
the secret that I kept so well.
The flowers said to see the sun
for he would know what must be done,
so hoping he would set things right,
I sat and waited through the night.
When morning came I bared my heart
tormented, shamed and torn apart.
The sun went down before his time —
a kindly act to grieve the crime.
Then I was free, as free could be,
it mattered that he cared for me.
But morning came in bright display
like nothing happened yesterday.
The oak tree danced with chirping birds,
the earth was deaf to all my words.
“I’m sorry child, I have to shine,
or else I’ll break the grand design.”
And so I left with shoulders low,
more downcast now than days ago.
The pain that I could not dispel,
the secret that I kept so well.