And this is it....... TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF. simple. I just thought of how neat the first grass of spring is really really green. The best color, if you have to pick a certain color and you picked green, see, you would have to be that particular green, the first grass of spring green.... and it is so sweet and fresh and inviting..... that you take your shoes off and just put your naked feet on the grass and feel the first fresh growth of love from dirt. simple. It's an air thing, I guess, too, but it is hard to grow things in thin air. Dirt maybe is best.
So, see, yesterday I learned that someone I had gotten to know, here, in thin air, not dirt...had died.
He had written a small blog, somehow I stumbled unto it, I liked the way he wrote, and gees we gott to be friends. His name is Bob... and he wrote SEVEN ROADS TO HOME which was just a nice patch of grass. When he was diagnosed with cancer he continued to write, about what he loved, going to the Mayo and the Clinic in LaCrosse. But, what I always liked is when he would write about his garden and talking with his Buddys.
 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Bob's photo of his garden | . | . |
I had
Green is good and from the photo's he would post, it seemed like he was good at making green. Not the money..... the good green, from the dirt, with love. I guess he was able to grow friendships, too, right out of thin air, and that is a pretty incredible thought,
Take your shoes off, wherever you are, and let things grow all around your feet. There is nothing better to know, especially when you have no desire to not know too much.
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.
Shel Silverstein
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.
