Dear Great Aunt Liselotte,

You were that pleasing shape
just to the left of the elms.
Next to Gunter,  your lover,
uneasy,  unaware how quickly

he would be tamed.  Already,
shadows settle between you,
jostle the picnic tucked into
its basket, jostle the twins

tucked in you.  Nothing left
now of the scandal.  Nothing
left now of the town.  Of the square
where the whispers all started,

not even one cobblestone.  Although
there’s no headstone to mark it,
your bones lie somewhere near
this grove.  Your twins

grew to womanhood cherished
by Gunter’s meek,  actual wife.   Thus,
your red hair and blue eyes
came down to us.   Our

old women’s white,  lustrous waves
are still tinged with a faint
pink patina handed down
from those sweet,  supple days.