Some Kind of Metaphor

We were not doing well, the chipmunk was excavating our front step, nibbling away at our foundations. The chipmuck was a metaphor. The garden peach tree developed a blight, the fruit rotted on their stems. and that was some kind of metaphor, for our words had poisoned the soil. I began to believe in angels, those fleet of wing metaphors that carried other metaphors. to those who misinterpreted the plain English of love and hate. After the divorce, we grew closer, even though it was over, the separation brought us together, in the same unravelling metaphor. You read its cryptic signs, and found solace in their obtuseness. I translated them into Urdu, then sought the advice of stray cats. In the end we riddled it all out. We were happier apart, yet we were still both living metaphors, for the poetry yet to come.