For Shel Silverstein
Twigs
from the old oak tree
in our front yard
fell to the sidewalk
in unknown patterns.
Twisted and crooked,
"Gnarled" my mom would say.
"Sweep them off the walk." my dad would say.
Small versions of the tall
oak tree.
The sidewalk was cracked.
I used it as a floor.
Maybe I was the first.
I built my house
on the cement plain
next to the lawn,
a wild forest
and the river flowing
in the gutter.
A man said,
"That might trip somebody walking here."
How silly, I thought,
Sidewalks aren't just for walking.
I knocked it down
before someone who didn't
look down
could.