There are Monday mornings
following every escape,
shadows behind turned backs,
whispers behind closed doors.

There are footprints leading
away from joyous occasions,
fogs lifting from melting ice,
ragged blooms in mud season.

There are memories wound tight
in skeins of regret.
There are things we kept
secret after all.

Kerry asked the Real Toads to complete and use in a poem this line: "There are things we kept secret after..."