We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.

Who could say for sure?
You see it as you pass by: eyes sinking
into a broken, red dirt road;
to the side, some painters’ shacks:
tender blue doorways, smoky
roof: the green runs
to the back, lively as a hen,
pecking at the wash, losing itself
among blue distances.

No one lingers
to look it over. You find it only
when you leave for another place, when
there’s no time.

Then
you’ll not find it again.

It’s paradise.

Translation by Katherine M. Hedeen and Janet McAdams