它滚向了一个站点沿着昏暗的车库的

It has rolled to a stop along one wall

一堵墙，滚进了升降门的

of the dim garage, rolled in through the wicket

of the overhead door, the last sharp clack

拱门，最后一声尖锐的木槌声

of a mallet so far behind it now that only

这么远地落到了它的后面现在惟有

the imagination can hear it, clacking in over

想象力才能听见，啪嗒着在

the clipped, imagined grass. Its pale green stripe—

修剪过的想象的草地上面。它淡绿色的条纹——

the green of the handles on old kitchen spoons—

那老厨房勺子手柄的绿色——

is even paler now, under a whisper of dust,

如今更加苍白了，在灰尘的一声耳语下，

and the wood has cracked along the grain

木头沿着纹理裂开了

so that the cracks go round and round it

以便那些裂纹一圈一圈地绕着它

like rings on a planet. And perhaps it is

就像一颗行星上的环。也许它就是

a planet, and not even one of the lesser ones

一个行星，甚至不是一个较小的

but something worth our full attention,

而是值得我们全神贯注的某个事物，

and I, while passing through this life,

而我，在穿过这一生，

wheeling my lawnmower into the shadows,

推着我的割草机进入那片阴影时，

have been the first to see it waiting there.

成了第一个看见它等在那里的人。