Horse Chestnut, candelabras;
In Spring, mini trees upon trees;
White and pink flower cones;
Moving slowly in the breeze.

I once convinced
a boy of unsure stock
that they lived, just like him:
a look of pure shock.

Set squared by buses,
bursting by ev’ry street light;
they measure the seasons,
a familiar sight.

We stored conkers
this year, each sprouted a shoot.
A new tree from each, perhaps,
we’ll allow them take root.

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