Another of my Dad’s celebrations of the small things in life. From his book Elementary motherland (Patria elemental)
The terraces (Los zaguanes)
Neither in or out of the house there was refuge
out on the terrace. Under the roof,
without surprise, could have been love, a stolen kiss,
a little secret, the denial of panic,
shelter, the night of the homeless beggar,
elusion of boredom.
Ah, the terraces, framed by the almond trees
from the streets! Signs of an open house
all the way to the place where
the large gates of intimacy began.
The gate was like a wooden boundary
that allowed outsiders see at the back
a pool in the middle of a backyard
populated by birds and flowers.
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