Chestnut, David St. John

A silver mist hung along the Paris street
As she walked wrapped in a brown cloak woven
Some years before she was born & at

The corner of the Rue de l'Odeon
A chestnut seller stood holding out to her
A paper cone of split nuggets

Hot marrons & as she thought of those
Distant magnificent limbs of the Ardèche
She passed over a few francs then held her face

Above the dark steaming stones warming her lips
A moment before prying open one of the
Hard fruits with her raw fingers

Then sucking the searing gray meat onto her
Tongue where her familiar silence had only
A moment ago so precariously hung