No intention to rhyme

I took a hot, hot shower. Felt the water, steam and heat envelope my skin, the moisture-laden breaths of air filling my lungs until I felt almost buoyant. And I thought about a phrase that had suddenly and quite unexpectedly popped into my head minutes before I stepped into the shower:

"She walked the streets and found a seed..."

And I thought what she would do with it. I decided she would plant it in her pocket. And, for some reason, the rest of the short story (or rather, string of possibilities) started coming into my head in some kind of meter (albeit a very imperfect one) and I just couldn't stop my thoughts from falling into that meter. I have a fondness for how limericks sound, so I guess this naturally fell into that sort of sound. I just had to write it down.

I feel almost like an unpolished (and drug-free) Dr Suess.

She walked the streets and found a seed and planted it in her pocket.
That night she curled up on her bed and dreamed what it could be.

Would it grow into a cricket that one day hops out her pocket?
Or a voracious venus fly trap pushing roots right in her hip?

Would it bloom into a scissor plant with razor blades for kids?
Or maybe just a table top with supper for a week?

'Course, no such thing would come of it, t'was nothing but a seed.
But oh, the dreams and things and worlds that could come out from a seed.

After all, aren't seeds what drives us writers and artists to pursue things to the ends of possibility?