Poem – A Gift From The Romantic – John Tansey 

t 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

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