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