At the Meeting Place

Sarah-Joy Milner

Watch me bathe in Odaawaawi-gichigami, 
in the Mackinac hills—
and the birch trees you know so well will join you.
I am thirsty for the noble gazes of ancient roots and branches—
thirsty for the curiosity of yours that meets them there.
The north woods know your scent, 
the cobalt of your wings, 
the lance-shaped spice of Taxus canadensis 
dripping from your beak.
I heard the song you sing in a dream once.
Your orchestra was joined by dozens of your kind,
the harmony of your mountain high echoes singing to me— 
to us, 
floating as flutes,
flying higher than even you have tried.
My arms were ancient then, and you sat at my fingertips.
It moved you, my height, 
and your heart became drums—
drums you kept cadence to, 
and the song you sang watched 
as my roots stretched farther than time.
I wake now and wait for you.
Cedar currents kiss my arms and my feet, 
and they too sing their songs.
The melody of these falls is patient 
and giving—
for here we know the trees and hills are eternal, 
and here we embrace the nakedness
of this song, 
and those eyes of yours that watch nearby 
remembers.