They chose a tree that had already listened,
rings full of weather, patience, and time,
a trunk that knew how rivers remember
and how fire, when honored, can be kind.
In Ashfield the park will hold its breath,
May smoke lifting slow and thin,
not the smoke of loss or taking,
but the careful burn that brings shape back in.
A mishoon is not carved by force or hurry,
it's coaxed by flame and knowing hands,
fire teaching wood how to open itself
to water, to journey, to land.
Before maps, before towns learned borders,
before grants and calendars and dates,
canoes like this traced quiet futures
through coves, through bends, through the grammar of lakes.
Now the town makes room for the old instruction,
steps aside and lets it speak,
honors the first stewards of these waters
whose care ran deeper than words could reach.
I think of all the songs for the land I've written,
not to claim it, not to own,
but to stand with fields and rivers
and say this place is not alone.
This one won't be sung from a stage or porch,
no chorus to carry the tune,
but it rhymes the way fire and water do,
each shaping the other, each knowing when to yield room.
When the boat parade drifts into September,
and the mishoon meets the light,
it will carry more than wood and flame,
it will carry a memory done right.
A reminder that land remembers who listens,
that revival doesn't shout or boast,
it arrives as fire guided gently,
as a canoe returning to the coast.