This year the grass has grown under the swing
The sand-box, deserted and still
The tricycle rests from it's trips to and fro
Down the street, 'round the block, up the hill.
The yard is so quiet the neighbors all stop
And they ask "are the children all gone?"
They say that they miss their gay voices at play
Until nighttime from earliest dawn.
The house is so silent that Grandad can rest
And sleep just as long as he pleases.
But oh how we miss their cute voices and ways,
Their kisses, their hugs, and their squeezes
And oh how we yearn and long for them back.
How lonely our hours are now.
We might wish them home again after a week
But we sure wish they'd come anyhow.
Janice Weeks, Chamberlin, Hankins, Rogers