I miss the chestnut trees of my youth. I miss collecting freshly fallen chestnuts in the rain, and later rolling them lightly, in their casings, and then without, all over Yasuko's bare back, and her inner thighs, and soles.
I have my pines, here in Santa Claus country, it is true, but nostalgia has very specific ingredients that weave magic spells on the mind, no matter what fashionable Buddhist edicts say about living in the present.
I remember those naughty games I played on Yasuko, my geisha and classmate, with small chestnuts on a string, and her pleasure.
But most of all I remember the cold rainy night I took her to the cinema, and the moment I bought her a bag of baked chestnuts from a stand, and she warmed her fingers by wrapping them around the paper cornet, then warmed my lips and soul by taking a chestnut, kissing it, then putting it in my mouth, her fingertips infused with the chestnut aroma.
What I would give for love like that now, among my pine trees.
oh my geisha
I lost the chestnut you gave me
with the message inscribed
and ever since then I lost my way
from the sweet touch of your fingertips