half-life

I dreamed that I owned a flower shop;
that I lived my life in orchids, in hydrangeas,
wallpapered in baby's breath.
The seasons flickered through the window glass:
tulips marked the springtime; vivid asters,
then chrysanthemums in the autumn air; the flash of poinsettia
bright against the snow.

Blank-faced men drifting to me,
identical, their palms turned upwards,
clutching for something:
I pressed roses and marigolds into their outstretched hands,
stroking my fingertips over petals,
over flesh and thorns.

I grew old inside my flower shop,
feeding the faceless men;
they came for the tulips, clung to the asters,
to the fading mums.
There was the murmur of water, the laughter of windchimes,
the faceless men with poinsettias, bright against the snow.