Walking home along Broadway in February,
realizing that evening is flirting with warm afternoon from afar.
Tree branches coyly fade to silhouettes, and mountains catch fire.
Above, a winging river of crows grant benediction in their crowning
of my golden head as they wind their way to Burnaby Mountain.
The western sky is like a living seashell shyly unfurling to show its secret pink heart
once exposed, lit from within so that its rosy stain catches my fingertips
and my wrists below my sweater flash bright and lovely in
the heart’s-blood of the day.
By the pricking of my eyes, beauty comes.