This Moment
A neighbourhood.
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
Eavan Boland (* 1944, Dublin), "This Moment".
I love this.
Her!
What I love particularly about this poem is the pace: when the run-on-lines occur, there's movement; stillness is expressed in extremely short sentences and fragments.
Moreover, it's almost symmetrical around the "but not yet".