Saturday, April 14th, 2007
Photo: A Place Where the Sidewalk Ends
Where the Sidewalk Ends, 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.
When do you introduce poetry to a child? My almost-3-year-old has taken to rhyming words and making up fake words, so I wonder. Her comprehension far exceeds her ability to express her thoughts. Maybe I’ll try some of Shel Silverstein’s simpler poems.
Incidentally, the photo above was taken for the Fiona Project, but the project would only accept two images from me and I gave ‘em eight, so it is one that didn’t make the cut. It’s easily the ugliest of the bunch, but also the most poetic. The sidewalk resumes on the other side of the streetâ€”a highwayâ€”and if you don’t survive the crossing you may still complete the journey anyway. A cemetery is located across the street.