-This poem reflects on chestnuts gathered from beneath rain-darkened trees and carried indoors, where their polished shells, pale scars, and small movement in a wooden bowl bring the autumn harvest into the warmth of the kitchen.
The chestnut leaves have turned to copper,
the orchard path is wet with rain,
and opened burrs beneath the trees
lie empty in the flattened grass.
We gather what the branches dropped,
smooth shells released from thorny cups,
their polished sides receive the light
that filters through the passing clouds.
Inside, they fill a wooden bowl,
each pale scar turned a different way,
while rain moves down the window glass,
and kettle steam clouds half the room.
By dusk, the leaves scrape past the door,
lamplight gathers on the table,
one chestnut rolls against the rim,
then rests beside the folded cloth.