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 grateful’ ‘be 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.

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