A Flower Never Picked Poem by James McLain

The forest is this ment to be
unborn
tossed out
this world I could not ever see.

Mighty oceans,
stars that blink above.
Below dark open silence
wherein should I long to wait?

The trees,
long broad open leaves.
Are they often softer green?

Are they not
and when I hear you speak
to all the others,
I am like them not.

Still inside,
and moving floating islands
running streams.
As did you
when foam is warm upon the sea.

Fear you can not ever bear,
and I am
I was come to be Am I?

Come here then
and tell me when you feel it.


To wade again into the sun.
And summer never yellow comes.
A flower by the meadow never,
am I picked.