Floodplain The Weather Station

All spring I was driving
Every river swollen with rain, every stream a torrent
Over the highway bridges that run high across the plains, flooded
“Half of the Maritimes,” they say, “is running this way.”

I don’t expect your love to be like mine
I trust you to know your own mind. As I know mine

Could it really be so effortless
All in my sight, many hillsides –
Green and black and distant, and rivers serpentine, glinting

I know there’s so much it just can’t mean – you and me
Still caught up in heartache and grief
Yet to come, yet to cease

I feel like I’m seeing double, all joy and all trouble
My friends say, “be careful,” or “be gracious,” “glad,” or “thoughtful”;
“don’t move too fast”; “don’t let it pass you by.”

But I don’t expect your love to be like mine
I trust you to know your own mind. As I know mine