I am meat for my journey.                                               

This canoe made of birch

and ancestors’ bones,

is laden with mystery

and fleece, apples

and rye bread,

friends’ voices shining

(these here those gone),

stuffed with supplies

for northern nights

when grenades of stars

blast their loud love

in skies toward forever,

as we glide in silence

one flashing moment

on a cerulean lake

deep with sorrow unsaid

and gladness serene,

breath of our fathers and mothers,

through clear waters thick mud
meanders this voyage.