"Full Circle," a poem

There is a name written
in this scratched
snow-blown
pint glass
confronting me.
It reads:

false contrition.

And with my
warm rag,
hot breath, and
stone in my shoe,
I do my best
to rub the name away.

Sadly, inevitably,
nothing seems to work.

Which is true of
most things we try,
is it not?

Instead of working out,
things change us.
And so we adapt,
for better or
worse -

like the

sleet melting upon the street

or

the sun drying out the grape

or

the tree curling
around the reader
beneath their shade.

The passage ends.
The window
is clear, revealing the edge
of your life, all life - the edge of change:

something we feared
we had lost forever.

But it is here,
with you,
now.