By Sylvia Probst Young
I turn the corner to a quiet street.
There stands a little house that I call mine,
That white frame over by the willow tree;
Its front porch holds a honeysuckle vine,
The western window frames a twilight sky
And larks are nesting in the willow tree –
In that small world is all my happiness
Within a family circle’s intimacy.
I hurry now, for coming down the street,
I see them … How familiar is the noise
Of racing feet … and I am back again
With three I love – three little boys.
They almost smother me as each one tries
To hug me first – and then we go
Back to the house to tell of all we did,
Although I left less than an hour ago.