My grass do not have brown spots
Green grass is growing where they were before
Memories of my children playing yard games
Is all I have left but memories are not the same.
My son's birdhouse sits on a pole reaching for the sky
Each time I look up at it, it is hard not to cry
A dollhouse my daughter and I built still stands
Looking at it I visualize her happiness all over again.
I wish the clock could take me back in time
Back when my children's ages were eight and nine
If my grass had brown spots I would not care
Because my children's youth once again I could share.
Ralph L. Clark © 2001