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The Weather Station

Way It Is, Way It Could Be

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You looked small in your coat, one hand up on the window,
so long now you'd been lost in thought.
No snow on the road – we'd been lucky,

and it looked like we would be well past Orléans
and past Montmagny, the road giving way to river
the frozen Saint Lawrence white and blue.
We went out on the ice, and I turned back to you, a figure
distant and small in the long view.

Was it a look in your eye? I wasn't sure.
The way it is and the way it could be – both are.
We got back in the car.

You always tell me the truth,
even when it hurts me or it hurts you.
Could you go a little easy – would it kill you?
Living out the dream, out on the road now for a couple weeks.
So intimate with all that we had wanted.
All that we hoped for and all that we dreamed –
the way it is and the way it could be.

But how long is it going to go on?
I'm gonna count on – I'm gonna hold out for nothing much.
A little kindness, a little praise some days.
I get so close, but I don't really touch –
what I get, or what I need –
the way it is and the way it could be.

Two brown dogs came out running cross the highway,
panting and low to the ground.
And then they were gone;
for a moment, I had run them down.
I closed and opened my eyes.
They were running up the hill on the other side.
The way it is and the way it could be – both are.

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