My hands are growing old, precociously
leading the way,
flaunting the early blooms
swollen into the wrists,
skin stretched taut over failing bone.
The rest of me, I flinch,
reluctant to follow, but they,
they are the movers,
the doers, the
competitive children, they struggle
to predict the weather:
"Sun," cries the crooked left thumb,
flexing itself proudly.
"Rain," intones my right forearm,
settling itself.
"Rain, child, rain."