When he’s standing in your doorway
Clean-shaven, distanced,
Recognize that once he was
Scouring the cracks in the blacktop,
Picking pansies with the weeds
And clumping them together to declare
The love letters he had written along the sidewalks,
Blue chalk sprawling beside her walk home.

And one day he was standing before her desk,
A medley of a bouquet lodged under his fingernails,
That he took to be the most beautiful piece of art.
Lips slightly chapped, chest rising quickly,
In a moment of unadulterated courage he ****** his arms forward
To present the best offering he could.
And all she saw was the dirt.

If it weren't for the pillow.

Unspoken.
Anna.
Total.
Moon gum.
Headache.
Afraid.
Toothpick.
Pick your nails.


Garrett Johnson.

Take me to where the sidewalk ends.
Past the dark streets that wind and bend.
Return me to what I used to know.
Bring me to the roads diverged into the wood.
Let me take the road less traveled as I should.
I refuse to stay along this normal path.

The flower on the sidewalk
was uprooted ...
planted in a garden

From the dusty road
to a safe haven

Winter
bloomed
as if it were the summer season

Where I have arrived,
is a story I long to tell

Take a slow walk, beloved
Enter the garden

Cracks in sidewalks
are dark pockets in the Earth
that contain forgotten histories
of workers and parents,
students and dreamers.
Every time we step over a crack,
a charge of energy from the past
enters our souls.
That energy informs us,
our perspectives,
our judgement,
our wisdom.

–Ron Gavalik

You saw a blueberry
On the corner of the sidewalk
Something you shouldn't have noticed
But unexpectedly took interest
In a blueberry
On the sidewalk

With each passing day
You'd see that blueberry
And with each passing day
You looked forward to it
To a blueberry
On the sidewalk

But eventually, the leaves will fall
And the snow will come
People will move on
And nothing will be left
Nothing at all
Not even a blueberry
On the sidewalk