Striking

My grandmother sits,
old and frail,
like a broken carriage.
Her skin, like the bark of a maple tree,
looks withered and wrinkled.
Instinctively, she comes to life,
like a deer, darting into the trees
after freezing at the sound of a broken twig.

Tonight, Grandma rocks back and forth
in her red velvet chair.
She holds four black and red cards;
rummy five hundred is her game.

She carefully picks up one card
with her crippled hands and
a sly smile slides
across her face,
like a snake sliding across the grass.
She puts down four red cards
with a slap:
ace, king, queen, and jack.
Her eyes light up,
a wolf perched
on a cliff in the moonlight.





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