and there’s the presents
which we don’t talk of
which we secretly wish
for ourselves; wondering
whom we might ask for them;
or whether they were already ours,
bestowed by fairy godmother
there beside the cradle; in which case,
where did we hide them
from ourselves? ..
to wake each morning,
not to depression and the lack
of any sense of personal self-worth..
but to praise and gratitude and joy…
unwrapping the world,
loosing its knotted golden cords,
easing its sticky tape,
folding the paper neatly into memory,
discarding all the packing which defends…
or must we posit a god so just and merciful
that time to him or her or it, is but an experiment
to give us time and freewill, to remember
where we hid those presents from ourselves?
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-presents-on-the-gift-list-yet-unread/
