Where the Sidewalk Curves
Where the Sidewalk Curved
Kevin Davis, 2025
Down the lane where the sidewalk curved,
we ruled the world, no lines preserved.
Chalk castles bloomed in summer heat,
hopscotch kingdoms beneath bare feet.
The swing groaned like an old guitar
as we kicked at dreams not very far.
We were pilots, pirates, queens of May—
while time just smiled and slipped away.
Lunch forgotten, mud pies were served,
justice was swift, and fate observed.
Tree limbs shaped our lookout spires,
guarding secrets, dreams, desires.
In the golden hush of a screen-door slam,
we learned of mischief, jam, and scram.
And every dusk would softly say:
“You age in years—but not in play.”
On our grandparents’ porch swing we would soar,
each of us reaching for something more.
We leapt from planes our minds had drawn,
parachutes flared, then touched the dawn.
We ran to the chicken coop laughing loud,
dodging the rooster, brave and proud.
Then rushed to the barn with eager eyes,
where cows stood calm beneath wide skies.
Walking into their stanchions set,
they stood and swayed; I see them yet.
While Grandpa worked, we lingered near,
watching close and drawing near.
We’d taste the morning in milk so new—
a farm-born gift, pure as dew.
Such were the days on land we knew,
of splinters, sunshine, and skies so blue.
Our elders now are gone away,
yet all their stories choose to stay—
and in each tear, when memories pass,
the past still breathes through field and grass.
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