Chestnuts. P.S.

A little while ago
I wrote a poem about chestnuts(*)

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* horse-chestnuts — a fact I was reminded of again,
as rain carried away the last petals.
And that moment where the poem was born,
where there were real chestnuts,
was carried away the same.
But strangely enough this ceased to worry me,
as my gaze was drawn to a no-name hedge,
a generic shrub, third-party bush lining the courtyard,
covered in tiny blonde blossoms overnight.

Spring

I cannot believe
In apple blossoms
I think they are born of the imagination
Of people with too much time

Not to mention the cherries
Just like the haiku
Nothing but a crazy dream
A non sequitur

Now chestnuts(*) I believe
They light up their candles
Right on my street

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* Horse-chestnuts in fact