Thursday, April 1, 2010

Where the state line ends

I've been reading more poetry lately and was reminded of some of the wonderful classics my mother used to read to us before bed.  Shel Silverstein was and always will be one of my favorites and since I'm leaving on a jet plane tonight for Washington, I felt this one was appropriate.  Never fails to remind me of that childhood curiosity (which I feel like I will never truly lose)

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. 

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