Misguided [Classic] (unfinished poem)

This is — weirdly — a poem version of a story I wrote (here). Not sure which came first, the story or the poem. One theory is that I wrote the story from the poem — because I took a creative writing class when I had a HUGE class load, and was just submitting whatever to meet the obligations of the creative writing class.

He walked amidst the forest, towering
The scent of pine pervades his senses
The trees were tall and were spaced widely
The ground was flat, though slightly rising
The trees were big around their middles
Both his arms could not surround one
And there was no brush below them
Only needles twigs and pine cones
Fallen needles hushed his coming
But the birds knew of his presence
Muted singing in the branches
Flash of movement high above him
Whistled callings in the distance
Fallen pine cones big as softballs
Gave him cause to watch his footing
Other noise was from the insects
Heard but not seen, whirring, buzzing
Two mosquitos spoke of water
Listening while heading forward
Knowing of no stream behind him
Toward the setting sun he traveled
Distant bubbling toward his right hand
Toward the right his footsteps take him
Toward the sound of distant water
Drawing nearer, growing louder
Sounds of splashing, bubbling, gurgling
Told him where to find the water
Slowing as the ground turned downhill
Footing tricky, sometimes slipping
Catching hold of younger tree trunks
Halting sliding, scraping fingers
Finally, he came upon it
Saw the flowing mountain water
Icy cold from recent snowfalls
Water in his hands he’s cupping
Sees within a face familiar
Looks a while at his reflection
Eyebrows furrow in remembrance
Who is this, this wayward traveler
Cautiously, he searched his memory
Nothing there but pines and pine cones
Birds and needles, walking westward
Stopping, resting, walking westward
Many days of walking westward