Member Poem

I used to want you to pick me
out of a field of a thousand flowers
but you never did and I am grateful
that I am still attached to my roots
that my stem remains unbroken
by harsh hands which were glazed with a modest tan
once a flower is picked
it is most often placed in a vase
given water and a gaze
for a limited number of days
eventually wilting out of shape
the beauty of flowers never picked
is that they will bloom again
and again
and again