The Gift Poem by John Stetson

I gave what I thought was a gift, still it remains unacknowledged.
It might have started a rift, but I left it unfollowed.
But not all the wisdom of age is sage, some is sanguine.
Not all perspective has merit, some should suffer abandon.

The gift, when it's given, is riven with high expectation.
The hope, yet unspoken is broken when there's no elation.
The value's not hallowed, it's in the eye of the holder.
The gift's in the journey, you'll learn, as the gift grows older.