The Puddle by My Driveway

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It wasn’t what you’d call a pond,

Puddle would be the word.
And spending any time in it
Was patently absurd.
 
Yet there they sat, happy to splash,
Not counting what they lack,
For they had water, just enough,
To roll right off their back.
 
They were content with their puddle
And, as such, took delight
In relishing the things they had,
Not missing what they might.