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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