Carved with stories in red and blue,
The canoe sleeps where spirits flew.
By reeds and gold of autumn’s breath,
She waits in silence, still as death.
A heron stands — tall, proud, and wise,
Crowned by mist and northern skies.
His gaze, a bridge from past to now,
Marks sacred time the earth allows.
This boat once sailed on tears and dreams,
Through cedar smoke and starlit streams.
It knows the songs the grandmothers sing,
It bears the touch of every wing.
To step inside is not to drift,
But feel the world begin to shift.
For every paddle, stroke, or sigh
Is heard by wind and watched by sky.
