If only the night had gone

We were by the river when she came,
flowing as rivers flow.
The long geist and the maiden,
punctual as deja vu.
Flowers burst in bloom
along their path.
And I knew it was time
or rather the end of it
but nothing I had read,
said this.
Apart from a dream,
apart from something,
shrugged away on the wind.
She sat expecting me
to climb aboard,
this creature from
who knows where.
Not beckoning
or wailing.
Neither she
nor it.
For the breeze did that
and the long geist huffed,
like a camel
at a manger.
I turned and it was me
I stood upon, alone,
now tailed,
but with no pen at hand.

If only the night had gone

How had I been lucky?
(if it was luck at all)
and were there others?
I lay on the grass and rolled,
I patted and I grasped
as that river ran.
I fit no longer
in the shell
and
I was not I,
I was not that
crumpled thing
of Earth and soil.
So,
this is why they do not speak,
this is why old tales told,
do not quite fit.
I had no pen,
no page
but the fantasy of mind
without map.
The long geist huffed,
she took my lonely arms
and we were gone.
Seconds passed
as seconds pass,
on clocks
that did not care.
As dreams that would not stay.