I was raking leaves with my teenage daughter, I thought about our trees and times gone by. 'Twas a time, “you dropped in this pile and would disappear in no time,” most likely off the swing. 'Twas a time you would be riding on the tarp as it carried leaves across the lawn.

These same leaves - green, shaded your brother's graduation party day - before that, croquet, golf balls dropped through.

The little wagon and green tractor rumbled down the drive and crashed to a stop at the trunk. Before the leaves, colored eggs nestle hidden in the bark.

Errant snowballs fly though the dark. You look up, bundled, as your stroller rolls by.

Now some of these maples - aging, ailing -- drop limbs with each storm. In time, the town will cut them down. In 100 years, will another family have times with leaves drifting down? It's up to me ...

Rob White

Sennett