The secrets gathered around the yellow-orange fire, where they looked like purple shadows.  Some wore sparkles like flicks of flame or distant stars, some were almost blue black.  They spoke in whispers.  Many used sign language – a quiet assemblage.  Now and then a secret would speak out loud and all others would turn to witness his breaking apart – for secrets told are no longer secrets and vanish – no one knows where.

The secrets did not judge good or bad – who’s to say what’s best kept silent?  At the whim of outside forces, some fearful, some fierce, there were so many of them that keeping track was named impossible.  And so they sat together, the old ones close to the blaze for warmth, the new ones tentative, shuffling just outside  the light, wondering how long they might stay.

In my dark living room lit by candle and the open wood stove, I write it out, tear it into little pieces, toss the pieces in with the crackling twigs starting to turn into red embers, wafts of smoke smelling of forest and fields tickling my nose.  I watch the paper curl, remember the sea where I spilled my secrets to the tumultuous wind which whipped them out over the water.

Is it telling if no one hears?  Or do the words fall from the sky, drift with ocean detritus, float down down to lodge in whorled shells of welk and moons that wash ashore full of stories to murmur into listening ears?