Erosion goes on underground,
Water eating away the stone.
It's nature's thing and all around.
But when and where - not often known.
A hole begins to shape and grow.
Once solid, but now empty of
Support, and what's on top will know
When in the hole sinks what's above.
Most times what sinks is minor stuff,
Sticks and stones and maybe a tree.
Once in a while that's not enough
For fate to play with gravity.
I hear strange sounds. What's going on?
A sinkhole opens. I am gone.
Comments about this poem (Sinkhole by Ima Ryma )
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