Secrets

In the early morning,
I hear the sky
whispering secrets
To the sycamore tree.

The dawn light,
rosy and tender,
spills betwixt and between
the shivering leaves.

Sitting in the quiet house,
I feel the breeze
slip through the window screens
and those secrets
tickle my skin.

It would be good, I think,
to understand
what the sky whispered
to the sycamore.

Where ever you are, whatever the weather, I wish you quiet moments.