I see small kids at play across the street;
A young boy riding in my grocery cart.
I see teens practicing, a marching band;
I see not with my eyes, but with my heart –
I hear a cello from my living room;
I hear small voices making idle boasts.
I hear, as parents do, who’ve raised their kids,
For all who have, know true belief in ghosts –
They haunt us as we go about our days,
And in our dreams they place us way-back-when;
These ghosts, our younger children, crowd our minds
With days that cannot ever be again