I carry my coffee down the green slope,
plop into a blue swing hung from an oak
(that’s survived a century!), and I scope
out the deep sinkhole. A cat creeps by, pokes
his pink nose in. Does this young country bloke
see what I see? A hole wider this spring.
Tragic what constant heavy rains still bring.
I swing high, look away, to what remains—
think how to protect, safeguard what’s now left—
think about all our struggles to stay sane.

(For a wonderful example of this dizain form,
see Bill Brymer’s on June 4th!)