False Metaphor

He fell to earth
fall equinox.
For months I too
have fallen, felt
sorry for the forest,
sighed apologies to trees.
The thought of my own
climbing one of its
harmless trunks
to leap into
the lowest share of sky
just above ground
felt somehow like I
by benevolent neglect
betrayed the forest,
released a tight fist
of seeds too soon.
My green pinecone.
My sorrow stones
passed on,
dropped early,
too raw to root.
False metaphor.
I see now in the sag
and hear in drips
of late winter snow,
walking through
this gentle piƱon grove,
that it is the forest
who felt sorry first
for him, for me, and broke
with love to save
us both from air.


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