Flowers from my hands

Would you believe it if I told you
that this morning, I awoke,
with flowers sprouting from my hand?

The sweetness of their fragrance made me woozy

The weight of bouquets
upset my balance,
and the moisture from the nectar
dripped down my arm

Confused and high on honey-suckle
I stumbled out the door,
smearing pollen against the wall,
waves of yellow streaks against concrete

Out the front door I ran, panicked,
as red and purple petals
feathered to the street,
trails of color filling out my footprints

i paused at the sight
of a child, wide-eyed and curious,
who stared at me, then
pulled out two stems of tulips

and then another child,
in stripes and smiles,
grabbed my hand and uprooted
a daffodil,
which he held like a yellow balloon

thrusting my hands forward
and bowing to my knees, I waited
as person by person plucked
petunias from my palms

And when all my flowers
had been given away,
I stood up.

Looking at my hands in wonder
of only flesh and veins
I slowly ventured home, alone.
Laughing at my day-dream.

Walking silently down the street,
a gust of wind chilled my core
for warmth, I rubbed my hands together,
and gasped

as soil slipped through my fingertips
sprinkling seeds into
the cracks of the sidewalk.