Fresh snow on New Year’s.
I sweep the porch,
then stand at the railing
to trim my fingernails —
always an oddly satisfying job
with that click of a clean bite,
the surprising lack of sensation
in these beetle-hard walls that line
our primary instruments of touch.
I take care that each trimming
stays whole, a nearly perfect crescent
to admire for half a second before
I add it to the instant ground below.
For the Read Write Poem prompt, “resolutions.” Links to the other participants’ poems are here.