I didn’t get you roses from Ecuador,
nor one of those cards one grabs, in a rush,
at the checkout line,
nor a Swarovski fawn for your collection.
I didn’t get you Chinese-made balloons,
bright and gaudy,
nor a Nepali cashmere scarf,
nor your favorite Swiss chocolates.
But at lunch, between bites of spaghetti
and sips of San Pellegrino, you will catch
your grandson’s eye like a reflection
of majesty in a crystalline Alpine lake,
your careworn travels having brought
us all to this joyous table.
