It must have been the mound of oak leaves
Recently raked into an enticing pile
Making them so scoopable
That the neighbor’s boy couldn’t resist
His urge to fling up handfuls
As high as he could
Taking delight in their descent
Showering his head with light and lightness
While his mother gardened
On the other side of the car
Now knowing, or pretending not to know,
The dissipation of her patient efforts
Into the matchless pleasure of a four year-old