Thirteen

Smooth in my palm,
it glows like polished cedar;
on the other side — the dull map
of a monk's tonsure:
the first conker.
I always find it for him.

This time he leaves it,
Come on, Mum,
it's only the seed
of a chestnut...

I pick it up, rub it shiny
in my pocket.
There's a tree inside.