The Falconer

Miss how Sundays were for the trees to heal

By Darden Lear

Darden Lear, Poet

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After your sun burnt the rings inside them

Aged from the rusted locks you place on me

Once the air smelt of jasmine and orange

And I never worried about the dark

Dark slowly found me alone by Monday

You told me do not be afraid, trust me

But with trust came you grasping all branches

I was no longer myself, by Wednesday

Absorbing the sharp vibrations you voice

And the hurricanes you make marked my bark

Green not found on Friday, bleeding reds

Sunday you would mend tarnished wood of mine

Growing my roots deeper into your palms

You nourished my cracks with wind from the waves

Sunday’s sunset would fade, dark arrives

Dark stayed one day, but you never came back

Monday alone, Wednesday gone, Friday bleeds

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