Wrenna the 4th
Sandbox is rusty
The swing is covered with mold
They are so lonely
Without their bluebird
Playing and squealing on hold
Disappeared no word
Little chair’s broken
Vines withered away and brown
Hope you’ll be back ‘round
Drum beats no longer
Tambourine’s quieter than quiet
Frozen berries thawed
Mimi’s arms aching
For her Wrenna girl to hold
just don’t understand
Copyright © Kristi Hayner | Year Posted 2010
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