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Haven of trees above the Gate,
windy, black-winged, wet,
harbored springs clean as Shasta’s.
And if you wandered the ravines
watercress found you, too.
Between beatniks and empty barracks
Julius Kahn’s monkey bars dazzled.
The little Jewish girl and I dizzied
down the daisy-dotted slopes
and draped our necks with pollen-dusted rope.
Away from ballerinas and housekeepers
the dark cypress grove beckoned.
Beneath black branches, in dens of sand,
at home in the wild and make-believe
we traded seeds and secrets.