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Poem

It is in the subtlety
And not the blunt insult, 
The threat and not the onslaught; 

The implied and not the explicit.

It is in the first gleaning, 
remembered scents of Spring
And not the direct, 

Overhead heat of Summer.

The autumnal dread 
And not the dead of Winter; 
The sweet dream of sleep 

And not the bleak morning after.

When somewhere between the gift, 
And it’s crumpled paper wrapping, 
Lie an infinity 

Of finite things to be chosen: 

But of a thousand choices 
if I must choose one, 
I would settle, instead, 

 For the choice and forego the choosing…


John Tansey					11.25 07


Copyright ©2008 John Thomas Tansey

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