I feel you like I feel dirt in my nails after a long day of work in the farm. I take you with me to the house, letting you stay a little too long after the work has been done. I let you be a transient mark of pride and of fruitful joy; I feel this as I wash you off with warm water. My hands are clean now, but I miss picking my nails already. It's a kind of fondness that sits with you in the evening near the day's end, over dinner, and on the way to bed. I try to fall asleep faster because I look forward to tomorrow - when I'll have you in my hands again.