Wanting The Moon

 Not the moon.
 A flower
on the other side of the water.


The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,

a barn, a bridge.
 The flower
sings on the far bank.


Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music

over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.


The moon.
 No, a young man walking
under the trees.
 There are lanterns

among the leaves.

Tender, wise, merry,

his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.


A jester.
 The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,

I dance to it on my riverbank.

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