In the quiet a dead leaf rises
Scratching his way toward a puddle
Right up to the shore and stops
Pulling himself together with a shrug
Contemplating the softness of that sea
That might yet bring him back to life
Or at least allow for a vigorous sail
It's hard to let reality in
But while he's been crying
That puddle's been drying
Hardly his likeness left
And even the wind has died
His last and only friend
Pointing to a puddle over there
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