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,

a depression.

The guy said you can just backfill it with dirt.

And how relieved I was,

to finally know the cause.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: depression, nature imagery, pacific northwest, poem, poetry, weltschmerz, William Pearse writer