My Parrot

Like Abraham before me,
I scribbled my solemn verses
on the back of a shovel,
by candlelight when the mood struck me.

My parrot would repeat after me,
perched on my shoulder
like an eccentric professor;
I admonished myself through him.

The day he died I took up my shovel
and buried him in the woods.
My words were lost to the moist earth;
none were recovered.