Forgive Me

I think everything
is a poem.

Winter is not a tree
until Persephone
leaves the room
and thin brown fingers
point at a grey sky
or scrape their nails
at my window.

The Earth is my mother
and I her child
(our reunion is a most
unfortunate metaphor),

but all I see is meta:
four shades of ink unite
for sunset or a painting
of it or just yellow-orange
words slipping, melting
into darkness.