Where the Sidewalk Ends

by Joy Monger

 

 

 

I go on walks and I think of you, Joy Project.

Warmer weather has a direct correlation with the amount of sidewalk chalking I see.

I never see the children themselves. Just the sentiments they leave behind.

Swirls and polka dot lines. Notes written to family members and passersby. Names outlined in CAPITAL LETTERS.

Charlie Was Here!

Sidewalk chalk is the best example of Zen I know.  The children do it purely for the joy of making art. They don’t care that it won’t be there tomorrow.

In fact, the lack of permanence is probably half the fun. You can make mistakes, when it’s not for keeps.

But I guess nothing is really for keeps. So why not do it, just for the joy?

Also, it’s National Poetry Month. So I give you Shell Silverstein, my favorite poet.

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.

Image via Flickr 

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