A Flower Never Picked

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.