Where the Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein
*Shel Silverstein was a favourite poet of mine as a kid. The library in my hometown used to be housed in an incredible mid-century modern building. It had that delicious old library smell. Along with my other favourite reads, I knew just where Shel Silverstein’s books lived on the shelves and I would often make a bee-line to that section, grab the first library plastic bound book that my fingers found, listen to the crackle of the plastic as I randomly opened it to a poem and then I would stand there in the aisle and read it. More often than not, I would write it down in a little notebook I carried and then trace over the illustration as well.