A full circle on a window that frosted
over a look outside, drawn with a tip.
Revelatory, round, fading back
into the unexpected cold.
Suddenly remembered, of all things,
like the trees on the lawn, like the brick mailbox
your brother crashed his bike into.
More than the circle itself,
all it contained. The intimacies of that year,
the pitch and tone of the voices
which called out in laughter
from a living room that is now empty.
More than the circle
its fleeting existence on the glass,
its permanence in you.