"The breezes taste
Of apple peel. 
The air is full 
Of smells to feel - 
Ripe fruit, old footballs, 
Burning brush, 
New books, erasers, 
Chalk, and such. 
The bee, his hive, 
Well-honeyed hum, 
And Mother cuts 
Chrysanthemums. 
Like plates washed clean 
With suds, the days 
Are polished with 
A morning haze." 
John Updike 

I rake the leaves
When they fall down,
In a great big pile.
And when there are 
Enough of them,
I jump on them awhile.
Author unknown