Sunol

 

September 3, 1977  (I was 32)

 

         Sunol

Some might say I’m living an escape.

They speak of a hideout in the woods

for a part time recluse.

To them, it is an amusement

quite romantic, naively idyllic,

a place of dreams in which to dream.

They intimate psychological retreat,

these worldly heroes who leave the room

to avoid a spider, who contract poison oak

thinking about trees, but this place is real.

The deer are feeding in the hills

the turkey vulture circles overhead

the raccoons come to the porch

the possums hang from the oaks

the snakes hide under rocks

tarantulas march across the road in September

The actuality of the place cannot be denied

It has not been created in search of ignorance

It creates itself in the image of its own truth