“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.”
To my son, I hope that your are, indeed, resting in that place...
that place before the street begins, that place where the grass grows soft and white, that place where the suns burns crimson bright, that place where the moon -bird rests from his flight. ..to cool in the peppermint wind.
To my daughter, I thank you for always "knowing" that place, for marking those chalk-white arrows as clear as can be, particularly on my foggiest of days, for reminding me of its existence, and taking my hand, to guide me away from the street...to "that place"... that place that the "children" know... that place where the sidewalk ends.