Metaphoric

The tide is not my feelings, and the grass
Is not an analogue of people's hearts.
We aren't reborn whenever springtime starts,
The leaves in autumn never were a glass
Through which we see our true selves as years pass,
And thinking this is putting stupid carts
Before the horse, or blithely throwing darts
Blindfolded, like a metaphoric ass.

If we are part of nature, nature's not
A part of us. The simple beasts we are
Aren't mesmerized by rings on a sandbar,
Our unenlightened mode of careless thought,
Philosophy, deep planning, reason, plot,
Are not bluebirds. We're shining, like a star.