In the Style of E. Pauline Johnson.

I have pushed from shore

Like some Indian lore

And the birch craft

Takes over my need.

To be on the Lake

For some reverie’s sake

As the bush fells its amber

Un-treed.

But the moment lifts

As my craft just drifts.

I intend to wait quiet

For stars.

And the North One, my friend.

Til autumn’s chilled end.

And canoe lifted lone

To shed’s bars.

Several months the Lake glassed.

Several months my treks passed.

But the Hope lingers

Long like rich wine.

For the white throat’s

Sweet song

To May flowers belongs.

And paddling, in aroma of pine.