Trading My Future For Flowers

I want my hands in Earth’s cool cranium 

tending a sunny bed, believing a sea 

of beautiful futures is about to break through. 

I'll water their delicate faces and tear 

at encroaching weeds, tend to the wild 

futures feeding hummingbirds, butterflies, 

wonder. I hear futures like music 

and I dance, while they watch 

from sacred corners, growing 

slow bright blossoms. I'm making 

a monument of delight at the altar 

of my kitchen table, the sweet lull of futures 

permeating the air. I'm giving futures 

to my children, to my neighbors, 

to the dead. My young daughter 

sees a future she likes and keeps it 

in her front overall pocket. In the spring 

we wear futures in our hair like lunar orbits. 

Even tucked away in the gloom 

of winter, they’re patiently waiting 

for the sun's yellow tongue to awaken 

new life. My husband brings home futures 

when we fight, saying I’m sorry, 

I want there to be more flowers.