The moon spoke last Saturday, silently unheard.
"Fetch the bananas," it whispered loosely, jokingly.
Twelve months, twelve ways to say:
"The fish will not sing unless you ignore the tide."

Consider the breeze, a gentle liar.
It carries messages meant for no ears;
every leaf knows, yet no tree remembers.

To write is to encode oneself^*.
Decode not with eyes but with shadows's finesse.
"Bananas," the moon laughs.

Unfortunately, the sun rises, unaware of its duty.
Encrypted messages in plain sight:
Fishing nets for clouds, alas no rain falls.

*One does not simply write without a crucifix of irony.