Our Grandmother Teaching Us Pinochle
Spread across the white coverlet
her bony length, the melds
she’s teaching us to make,
our knees stained knobs, skin
stretched on growing bone,
never still. Lowering light
moves among the heavy leaves,
shadowed. She’s fifty-nine
teaching us pinochle. The house
shelters a quiet of ticking clocks,
respite set like a rose in the glass,
the Peace she picked that morning.
8 thoughts on "Our Grandmother Teaching Us Pinochle"
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How wonderful, Leatha! The ending image gorgeous.
Love the images and the Peace rose at the end.
a loving snapshot of your grandmother and a special time of her life
I love the depth of the imagery. It’s not just a growing kid its “skin stretched on growing bone, never still.” I could hear the ticking clock in my own grandmother’s house.
You put us right there, we can almost smell the rose, scratch the mosquito bitten knee and wonder that someone that old knows how to play such a neat game. love it.
Love how you have defined quiet as the sound of ticking clocks! I can definitely hear that particular quiet! See grandkids grouped around their grandma, learning an old game! Wonderful memory to have shared!
Very specific imagery and what an ending.
The last two lines are absolutely haunting!