History Lesson

This old summer grass is
dry blonde hair, badly combed
over light brown dirt. It's
someone dead whose huge head
is buried in my back yard like
the small, yellow, Parakeet
I buried a couple weeks ago,
whose life we all agreed, could
have been better.

See how the mind works on me
culling regrets from past days
and depositing them into this
sleepy morning. Memory is a
hoarders room with a trail,
full of boxes, some half
open inviting, some taped shut.

One day, I'll lift the damp lid
from a box, find the birds' toy ladder,
a food and water tray, a few dried treats
with a tiny, mirror in the bottom,
bird bathtub. I'll find good mixed
with sad, finally want to assign,
to accept comfort, to find the right place
for the pieces.