Given

Penelope needs leaves for her
school project. Can you help
her collect them, my son’s wife asks.
Of course, I say. How many
do you need? The answer: Ten.
Come on Penelope, I say to
my three-year-old granddaughter.
I stand on the Northampton bike path
and raise my arms to the tall oaks,
Come on down, give me your leaves,
and the wind shakes down a dozen,
one that falls into my outstretched hand.