A Gift From the Romantic
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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
