I live in a 1950s California bungalow Just off Sherman Way; traffic whizzes by, Pedestrians and bicyclists come and go, Oblivious to my sanctuary. Like an oasis, giant palm trees Hold court in the center of the property. When hot Santa Ana winds blow, Fronds and branches litter the driveway. Reminders of gentler days Are a bench and birdbath; I've never seen a bird in the basin. A small wooden sign reading ``No Children'' Takes up too much room. I sit alone on the smooth, stone bench And watch a squirrel scamper across A tree trunk hewn long ago. Wild weeds own the deserted barbecue On the faded brick patio. Tangerines flourish in winter and Grapes in summer at this retreat off Sherman Way. Bob's Big Boy, Tommie's Hamburgers And 7-Eleven neon signs flash nearby, But here a charm still lingers. A quietude and serenity of Yesteryear joyfully welcomed. I'm grateful for the curved path That led me here.