Monday, March 4, 2013

Where the Sidewalk Ends

(I apologize for bringing you unoriginal thoughts, but I felt this poem could remind us of the heart we once knew--before we became adults, before we became unaware of the places, before we got too busy to look beyond the possible. Those were the days we believed in miracles; dragons were fought with a mighty thought; and skies were blue, the air fresh, grass tickled beneath our feet, and we the magic bean buyers reached for giants in the sky. Let us not forget to invite ourselves back into the forest and sit by our fires, where we can tell tales of how we are to believe in our tomorrows.)

Where the Sidewalk Ends, a poem by 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.

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