WESTON

 

Our Weston's like a wounded bird,
He may not ever fly,
But who can tell; within his heart,
That he will always try.

He may not ever learn to sing,
As all the song birds do,
But I believe God gave to him,
The gentle dove's soft "Coo".

He can not see the things we see,
But we might be surprised,
If we could see the pretty things,
That move before his eyes.

He'll probably never get to play,
Games; like brother Kyle,
But do we know what joy he feels,
Behind his pretty smile?

He'll never hop, or skip, or jump,
Or go running down a hall,
But he may be just as happy,
When he can squeeze a toy ball.

 

Now that he is going to school,
I know it may be true,
The things he learns; and can not say,
Must be amazing too.

 

We do not know what he may do,
Nor how hard that he may try,
We only see a wounded bird,
But Angels see him fly!

AUTHOR: Margaret Shankland 1992
(Great-Grandma Shankland)