AT TURN OF YEAR

Now, again
there will be empty arms 
of trees
and sudden spread of silence
on the grass,
as if some hand
that didn't like
the green noise, 
placed its finger
over the lips of summer,
turning them white.
Yellow and brown
and a weak-eyed sun
in Fall.  Only one
more moment, rare,
caught in the palm
and cupped there;
joy in a bright light-
too much to bear.


		Lucille Murphy