I am meat for my journey.

This canoe made of birch

and our ancestors bones,

is packed, laden with

mystery and fleece,

apples and rye bread,

voices shining of friends

(these here, those gone)

stuffed full of supplies

for northern nights where

grenades of stars

blast their love loud

while we glide here in

silence one flashing

moment on a cerulean lake

built of sorrows and gladness,

clear waters thick mud.