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.