The Pile Jumper

“The Pile Jumper,” Friend, Oct. 1992, 27

The Pile Jumper

When autumn winds strip bare the trees,

And red and gold leaves fall,

We rake them up into a pile

As high as I am tall.

Dad tells me then, “Son, jump right in!”

I run, I launch, I dive,

Crunching down into the pile,

Just glad to be alive.

I come up grinning ear to ear.

“It’s your turn, Dad,” I giggle.

“I’m way too old”—he shakes his head—

“My bones are much too brittle.”

But then he says, “Oh well, why not?”

And plops into the pile.

I laugh and jump on top of him—

We wrestle for a while.

Watching from the living room,

Mom shakes her head and smiles.

Dad pulls me up; again we rake

The leaves into a pile.

I know pile jumping’s silly—

Not much of a game at all—

But jumping piles is what I love

When red and gold leaves fall.

Illustrated by Doug Roy