The Crook of Changes

My boulders do not appear
ready to roll. In that way,
downward Sisyphus
thought the work 
was done. In time,
my burden is turning
to gravel. My groveling
turns to shoveling. Action
again resembles hope, no
longer this dissembling
trembling wait. My infinite
game cannot avoid shame, for
ever is as ambiguous as it is
certain to transform.