an old woman thinks with rain falling outside

there are withers and whispers:
the withered fingers (isn't it strange, she thinks,
how everything seems to drain out of you as you age?)
the cloth is skin and her skin is thinner.

the whispers in a voice like roasting turkey,
crackly and rich.
they remind her of the sky in new york,
when she could hear the snow crunch,
and feel the cheap linoleum under her fingers.