Instead of fireworks and grand resolutions, these nine short haiku catch the quiet, awkward, unglamorous side of New Year's. The speaker is often alone or on the edge of the celebration: pleased with a tissue that landed in the wastebasket, promising "next year will be different" while watching strangers party on TV, or picking at an old scab while the rain falls. Even the cheerful greeting comes from a tired cashier hiding a yawn.
The mood is wry, a little lonely, and gently humorous. The poems keep noticing what is worn out or left over: a broken tea bag, a dead cherry tree, the smell of scalded feathers in a farm kitchen. Yet life keeps flickering in small ways, as the branches still sway with squirrels in them. The final haiku turns hopeful. A child, in boots, dancing on bubble wrap on her fifth New Year, seems to enjoy the day more honestly than any adult here.