The Gift



The gift lies wrapped
in ordinary butcher paper
unaware of its own treasure
bound tight by the twine of time
It bears no tag so as to tell
for whom it was intended
or by whom it was sent

The box sits innocently
among the fancy packages
that stack up under the tree
The red cashmere scarf for her
The lamb skin gloves for him
The fountain pen for you
The new journal for me

When all’s been opened
we’ll sigh a sigh of relief
that tells of expectations met
and smile at those none can meet
while the gift so unexpected
sits unclaimed where set
by one too shy to speak

“The mind so near itself cannot see distinctly” ~ Emily Dickinson


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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5 Responses to The Gift

  1. namelessneed says:

    Reblogged this on Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances and commented:
    Feliz Navidad all you


  2. kiwiskan says:

    sad…we are always looking at the outside…


  3. jimmcmillen says:

    Peter- my mouse scoots over to your URL from time to time. “The Gift” was wonderful- made my day. Keep working your way through senility by posting such great poetry.


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