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."