Surrounded by quiet circumstance and days-long isolation --
the vacationing Poets' gift --
I walk naked freely, alone, atop the mossy rocks,
among the massive trees and off-spring,
along the steeply nestled creek to dip in the pool
above an old log dam wedged between the banks.
Along the dog-worn trail passing a fire circle and a labyrinth of rock,
back to the exquisitely purposeful yet seeming random-built and scattered house,
embedded safe and secure in the mountain over years,
I pass berries, leaves, flowers, plantings and fruits of the endless garden,
enter through the spacious, airy, well-appointed
vacationing dogs' apartment (some would say, "enclosed bare-wood porch").
Back inevitably to the Poets' den of intellectivity:
rare and rarefied, addictive library corners, enchanting shelves of collections,
Camus, Rodin, Baudelaire, Dickinson, Michelangelo, Dylan,
fireplace, piano, guitar, commentary, candles and plants.
Still naked, and but for my paradisiacal isolation's looming Goliath --
the voice who threatens me with return to the human world from this nest in paradise --
I watch, asking my reflection in every mirror and glass for courage and a sling,
"Are you David?"
for Mary and Heller
