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.
