I have grown tired from too much poetry and these everyday ironies,
have sunken inwards,
as a spot in our lawn that’s slowly turned to a hole,
now something we’re forced to address,
the frost level come up,
the remains of a great maple felled long ago,
the trunk finally given way to rot,
now just a patch on the ground,
The guy said you can just backfill it with dirt.
And how relieved I was,
to finally know the cause.