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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Wanting The Moon