Pinks and Purples
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.
Hon, I write. I write picture books and chapter books. In my stories, the little girl inside of me invites other children to mark the place where the sidewalk ends.
In that place and in that space,
we explore the world with open minds,
share our curiosity and wonder,
marvel at spiders and stars,
and believe in the magic of our imaginations.
“Glass itself is so much like water. If you let it go on its own, it almost ends up looking like something that came from the sea.” (Quote by Chihuly.)