I used to wait for the flowers,

以前我⼀直等花开，

my pleasure reposed on them.

我的快乐安放在它们⾝上。

Now I like plants before they get to the blossom.

现在我喜欢还没开花的植物。

Leafy ones—foxgloves, comfrey, delphiniums—

多叶的——⽑地黄、聚合草、飞燕草——

fleshy tiers of strong leaves pushing up

肥厚的叶⽚⼀层层往上蹿，

into air grown daily lighter and more sheened

伸进⼀天⽐⼀天透亮的空⽓⾥，

with bright dust like the eyeshadow

罩着⼀层亮晶晶的灰，

that tall young woman in the bookshop wears,

像书店⾥那个⾼个⼦年轻⼥孩的眼影，

its shimmer and crumble on her white lids.

闪动的细粉，落在她⽩皙的眼⽪上。

The washing sways on the line, the sparrows pull

晾的⾐服在绳⼦上晃，⿇雀啄着

at the heaps of drying weeds that I’ve left around.

我四处留下的⼲草堆。

Perhaps this is middle age. Untidy, unfinished,

⼤概这就是中年吧。乱糟糟的，没个完，

knowing there’ll never be time now to finish,

也知道再也不会有时间做完什么了，

liking the plants—their strong lives—

像这些植物⼀样——活得这么有劲——

not caring about flowers, sitting in weeds

不在乎开不开花，坐在杂草堆⾥

to write things down, look at things,

写点什么，看看这⼉看看那⼉，

watching the sway of shirts on the line,

看着绳⼦上衬衫轻轻晃，

the cloth filtering light.

布过滤着光。

I know more or less

如今我差不多知道

how to live through my life now.

怎么把这⼀⽣过完。

But I want to know how to live what’s left

但我还想知道，剩下的⽇⼦

with my eyes open and my hands open;

要如何度过——眼睛睁着，⼿摊开着；

I want to stand at the door in the rain

我想站在门前，在⾬⾥

listening, sniffing, gaping.

听，闻，呆呆地看。

Fearful and joyous,

又害怕又⾼兴，

like an idiot before God.

像个傻⼦⾯对着神。