It’s all lovely and springy, and I sat down near some pretty grass earlier to take a picture. I’d like to give you a snapshot of my afternoon, and a great poem that I think goes with it, from one of my favorite authors, Shel Silverstein.
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.