The sidewalk is still here but you can't walk on it anymore since its now a wall. Underfoot are lumpy woodchips that shift slightly with each step. I slow down to see. On either side of me, furrows of brown earth are interrupted by stout rosemary bushes, flimsy daffodils or bunches of mustard greens, blushing wine-red from the frost. I know there are tiny seeds tucked in between the soft, silvery sage and gaudy euphorbia. Tiny radish, chard and lettuce promisary notes to be redeemed once the weather warms. I slow down to see what is not yet visible. I can almost smell warm soup and taste the water crunch of carrot. I see strawberry leaves as red as their fruit will be this summer but get distracted by a child's dinosaur painted on a ceramic tile. Yum! He is enjoying the berries I can't have. As I stand to leave, blue tarp, yellow plastic watering can, rumpled burlap and the fuzzy fractals of a lamb's ear snag my attention. I slow down see what is visible when I slow down. Painted letters form C O M M U N I T Y on a sign made by friends and neighbors. In another few months these brown furrows will fill with fresh food, which will fill the soup bowls in a nearby kitchen, which will fill the emptiness and satisfy the hunger of a few strangers for a few hours. I cross the street to the next block and feel the slap of step on pavement.
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