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Heaven Help Us: There Are Rivers In The Sky - Signs Of Life - Atmosphere Belonging

Book Spine Poetry for #ds106

The land drinks quick of the water gift of clouds; its parched lips, glisten

Fingertips dipped in silver nitrate; indelible ink

like shadows of the poems we think we'd written but left forgotten;

I'm tracing your lines across time to see what rhymes and what does not

for Tellio

Framed with the sunrise: a cow in a pasture field, ambling onward

Nova Scotia Retreat June-July 2025 (a curated collection of daily poems)

Midnight dew glosses over the tangled arms of landscape scrub, the start of daylight, catching, then dancing on the surface of the petal-ed day

— Roque Bluffs, Maine, Thursday June 19

Eight miles over little but ocean – a curved line connecting shoreline to shoreline — we can only imagine the tumult of what winter ice and winds might bring, the ways these cables might sing

— Confederation Bridge over PEI — Friday June 20

There’s nothing in our ears but wind and air - the ocean holds little care for our comforts;

It’s fine, though -

We’re not standing on what appears to be the edge of the continent for polite company:

We’re here for the wild and the unpredictable, the jagged edge of forgetting

— arrival at the Blue House in Liverpool Nova Scotia – Saturday June 21

Castanets of white rock rattle in cyclical patterns on the shifting edge of the shore

Somewhere, a God shakes an iron fist, tossing bones to the floor

— Causeway, down the road from Blue House, Sunday June 22

Splotches of aqua blue water among the harbor rocks, a magician’s trick of the light, a deception of spectrum, and yet, even knowing it, we are dazzled by it, halting on the hillside trail to gaze down into something so beautiful, it’s breathtaking, only to notice the plump seals, sleeping, sunning themselves, shifting only when the notion beckons, while the nesting plovers, in the distance, dance along the sands with the currents

— Harbor Rocks, at the Kejimkujik Seaside National Park, Monday June 23

She’s all energy, all muscle in motion, the way her body moves to the waves, like a groove in the vinyl, skipping free, unbound and on the run, and we’re laughing in the wind, at how beautiful she can be

— Rayna, at Rissers Beach, Petite Riviere, Tuesday June 24

If I were to paint a scene like this morning on a canvas of stone, I’d use sound instead of color;

I’d dip my brush into the gentle flow of waves wrangling rocks, then rocks pushing back, then capture the faint call of seabirds in the distance, diving, falling, soaring, then the rhythmic chirping of crickets in the brush down below,

and then I’d smudge it all a little bit more: This morning’s a wonder

— sipping coffee on the deck of the Blue House, overlooking ocean, 6:30 am, Wednesday June 25

Dawn: the surface of ocean all rippling in hues of light pink and tangled blue, a purple tucked inside the pocket, a refraction of light of the morning sky, whispering in the distance

— from the Blue House, on a calm morning, 5:45 am, Thursday June 26

Twisted calloused fingers wrapped around the surface of stone – this old Hemlock’s long gone, weakened by people just like us — but the gnarled muscular roots of this old tree’s strong, an after-image of what once was if you take a breath to hear its song

— inside the Old Growth forest hiking (Hemlocks And Hardwoods Trail) of Kejimkujik National Park, Friday, June 27

Lingering low tide, in the morning light, a bringer of calm in an otherwise restless sea;

I’m about to write — waiting patient, on the day, to be

— Early wake-up, view from window, Saturday June 28

An old bridge, reborn:

what does it even remember in its beams, its girders still footed in the mud of the Mercy, a throwback to its years hoisting trains and cargo upon its track?

Now the trestle carries us — on foot, on bike, on air — splendid in its new garb of flat-nosed nails and wooden slats, like a young man, waiting for an invitation to dance

— The Trestle Bridge Trail over the Mercy River, Liverpool, Sunday June 29

Dive-bombing the wind currents with twists and turns, tiny storm-petrels move in erratic patterns, a dance partner to Poseidon’s muse

My eyes follow their acrobatic motion, but my ears hear only an angry ocean:

something so beautiful and way out of sync

— Morning storm and hide tide at the Causeway, a flock of Leach's Storm-Petrels, Monday June 30

Effervescent bodies of blue, pulsing in a swarm, hovering near you

The flowering bush is locus, a focus of small, daring fliers, circus stage loop de loops

Place an arm, a hand, a finger, and they might alight or linger: Damselflies, at Mercy’s edge

— along a path on the Mercy River, Kejimkujik National Park, Tuesday July 1

Bodies, bent into frozen poses - but beautiful, still - fantastic figures of dragons and elves, and our own mirrored selves, line paths and hills, and then, like a call of a siren somewhere at sea, the violinist brings Bach into this wild space; the perimeter fades, and there within a curated landscape of nature and art, nestled behind commerce and pavement and cars— there, the world begins to breathe

— Canada Day, at Crosby Garden Center/Sculpture Park, Liverpool, written Wednesday July 2

Blue house on a bluff — we sought your confines to squirrel away, to forget, to remove ourselves from the world —

it’s not your fault, it wasn’t ever going to be far enough away for that; but thank you, anyway, for the daily beauty and blessings offered and received; Leaving is tough

— Last morning before the long ride home, Thursday July 3

Still – we stand so still, watching morning clouds wander into the painting

Under boxes and code, we huddle with words; the poet knows the need to burrow down beneath

Metronomic light - blinking patterns in the night: fireflies, in flight

Winsome melodies shimmer in the morning breeze; wind chimes, rustling

A flower, powered by the sun, begun in Spring, sings in the summer