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