i received a gift today
it was waiting for me
by the front door
it was a cardboard box
no return address
just my name
and the tape that goes
all the way around.
i cut off the tape
smiling slightly
(it must be a present
from my father, of course)
and reveal a book
it is heavy and soft white
a book of poetry
and the lettering is thin and pretty
and i look at it for a few moments
it is uncharacteristically thoughtful
to be a gift from my father
who often gifts me old CDs
so he can take them for himself.
but this is no CD
it is a poetry book, new and glossy
and humming with mystery.
when i ask my father why he bought it
the confusion rises over his face
like mist over a mountain.
"i didn't," he replies, frowning
and i am left to contend
with no return address
and a gift from someone
who knows me strangely well.
and despite my eighteen years
i head dreamily back to my room
tapping the hardcover of the book
with my fingertips, light as rain
i rebelliously think of a fantasy
a prince sending me gifts
wondering fervently if i'd like it
i smile a little
and set the book on my desk
it is pristine and far more wonderful
in its light of anonymity
"yes," i inform the universe
"i do like it. but do tell me—
who sent it?"
