My beautiful aunt
with her black hair
and bright red lips
was the one
the rest of the family
told stories about.
She didn’t care.
Laughing at their gossipy ways,
she pulled them close,
told them another story,
kissed their befuddled cheeks.
On my own gray days,
it cheers me to remember those faces,
that flock of dour Scotsmen
surprised at what they made—
one red flower dropped in their midst
thriving in a field of rocks.
