Chestnuts

Scattered and tired on the smooth
light path, brown and smiling—
soft mouths—shiny and full,
lovely and round. I hear
their radiant song.

As I take one and place it in my hand,
gentle and tender as a child,
I think of the trees, the wind
singing softly through the leaves,
and how, to the chestnuts, this quiet music
is the summer slipping past, leaving
just this sound as a last goodbye.

And there is one here in my hand
not brown and glittering like the rest,
but drowsy and dull as sand
sliding through my fingers.
Slowly, step by step, almost
unthinking, I let my feet drift on.

9.23.1939