Rare Thing

Frances Quinlan

My love, in the dream, you were already speaking.
I was too shocked to make any one of my tired speeches.
Listen, that's a rare thing for me.
Sunlight touches on the plants that I've been torturing.
Yet when I come over, I love that quick delay before your face lights in recognition.

I know there is love that doesn't have to do with taking something from somebody.
Was so much for me not real?
I only managed to stay small by making giants out of strangers.
Through the chaos I can see -
all afternoon you inhale every bouquet you meet.

Come to think of it -
the dream was a nightmare with no one who knew me just then.
You were there, two-foot tall little bear.
You took my hand and introduced me to everybody.
I watched as you were named on that mid-February morning.

There is love that doesn't have to do with taking something from somebody.
Was so much for me not real?
I only managed to stay small by making giants out of strangers.
Through the window you look out at me.
I have to stop myself and admit you make me happy.

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