Spring, training

our eyes on the blues

of Coal Harbour, rife with wind

we rest, cupped in a moment.

 

How the Salish Sea has changed

and still beneath wave and pavement

thrums a heart connected to trade

seasoned by years of muscling voyage

anchored in exuberance – this cloth, this

metal, this animal wealth – wild

brambling lust for change, for fusion

burls onward, now as ever.

 

In a beat, the rest of the flowering trees

will surge open; for now, the ATM

blinks choices of language, a string

of pearls from afar chattering into shape

forecasting. This is the Pacific century.