Where Wildflowers Grow
#wildflowers #creativity #imagination #breaktherules #art #shelsilverstein #books
Did anyone else find childhood baffling? You’ve got a confidant in me. I make no pretenses about having it figured out as an adult, but at least time has tossed a few more tools in my emotional toolbox. By elementary school, the so-called “rules” already felt murky, and I found myself turning to books and art— my favorite escapes into imagination and creativity.
At ten, Shel Silverstein’s poems felt like a revelation: sharp, funny, and just rebellious enough to speak straight to my fifth-grade soul. [Sister] For Sale made me laugh— probably because I have seven sisters—who, for the record, turned out to be my best friends, but that’s a story for another time. Where the Sidewalk Ends felt magical and full of possibility—a reminder that the world is bigger, weirder, and more wonderful than the rules would have you believe—if you know where to look.
Sketching this illustration of wildflowers reminded me of the carefree, whimsical world Shel Silverstein brought to life in his poems.
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.
