With little blue bows in her hair,
And gazed through the tears falling softly,
On the arms of her tiny wheelchair.
On the branch of an old apple tree,
She spoke in almost a whisper,
"Won't you please trade places with me?"
So that I may see,
What it would be like to be flying,
Singing, happy, and free."
The friends I have are so few,
But I know I'd have friends little fellow,
If I could trade places with you."
Then I'd return to my chair,
And I'd cherish my wonderful memories,
And no more would I shed a tear."
And I'd never complain again."
Then, sadly she glanced at her wheelchair,
And all hope of her wish, there did end.
Jeannette E. Smith
January 10, 1979