The Grandchildren

    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