False Metaphor

He fell to earth

fall equinox.

For months she too

fell, and fell, felt sorry

for the forest,

sighed apologies to trees.

The thought of her own

climbing one of its

harmless trunks

to leap into

the lowest share of sky

felt somehow like she

by benevolent neglect

betrayed the forest,

released a tight fist

of seeds too soon.

Her green pinecone.

Her own sorrow stones

passed on unwittingly,

dropped early,

too raw to root.

False metaphor.

She sees now in the sag

and hears in drips

of late winter snow,

walking through

a gentle piñon grove,

that it is the forest

who felt sorry first

for him, for her, and broke

with love to save

them both from air.