Little girl on a swing, she delights me as she sings.
She is four and she adores, one who laughs and plays some more.
Little boy her friend so fine, they can fight and not be kind.
When competing for my hand they become a lot less grand.
Little girl she seems to find, so much love in all who’re kind.
Yet she’s learning life can be, something hard that makes you flee.
Little boy, he feels so proud, when He knows he is allowed,
to assist in chores for Dad, He believes he’s quite the lad.
Little girl, she’ll grow up soon, join the mess that fills each room.
She’ll forget this wondrous joy, use her body as’er employ.
Little boy may learn to hate, the gentle soul that is his trait.
He’ll reduce his life to fights, pushing hard to take his rights.
So we grow as tender shoots, ’til foul deeds crush with their boots.
What was grand is soon forgot, fantasy stills our deadly thoughts.
Still, I see in each young eye, a promised hint that God draws nigh.
I do believe in wonders born, cause treasure’s formed in what’s forlorn!
Author – Bill Tidsbury