You dream too much, his child tells him, hands spread to catch his father's words. "You're dreaming. You're dreaming." We picnic on the bluff, where small girls sell lemonade, and blackberry brambles tumble the slopes to a brilliant silver bay below. [Chorus] Joy to take away because a man who dreams too much has given me a day. Jackie tells us stories about Caribbean islands built on coral, the lives of ants and bees and earwigs, the diversity of grasses. All around us, tough stems raise their faded purple arms, bearing seed for another season. [Chorus] Joy to take away because a man who dreams too much has given me a day. Years ago in Louisiana's heat Jackie and his brother would crawl beneath their home to reach the eggs the chickens laid there. [Bridge] Then they'd lift cups of water to each other, toasting the world around them: the house, the trees, the yard, ending the ritual every time with a toast to the chickens. We laugh again. His delight is huge, like a lion's, just before the roar. [Chorus] Joy to take away because a man who dreams too much has given me a day. He tosses grapes one by one in the air and waits, head back, to catch them in his mouth. His son follows suit. Mine bounce off my teeth. Passing children and dogs all widen their eyes at our antics until the sun drops behind the clouded mountains. [Chorus] Joy to take away because a man who dreams too much has given me a day. There are crumbs on our red blanket. When we shake it and fold it, our hands match at corners. This might be a ceremony to put away a flag. I follow Jackie and his boy, barefoot, a thin thought pressed against my chest like an autumn leaf: [Chorus] Joy to take away because a man who dreams too much has given me a day.
