The Riddle

Says the poet, “O divine little sunflower,

You make my pen and my heart stop.

There are no limits known, the enigma

Of your surreal beauty cannot reach.”

It is a fear that lingers in the rhythm;

A fear of letting her watch his naked heart.

It’s his love the poet shall never speak of.

“What if she refuses to bloom?”

Fear has myriad shades, but this shade

Was no stranger; “We share a bond,”

He says, “And for her I’m just the man

Who waters her and watches her bloom.

I am nothing more. I am nothing less.

But does she know her place

In every dream I have? Has anybody else

Watered her the way I do?

Has anybody else feared

To not wake up to her effulgence?

Maybe she knows,” thinks the poet,

And he asks the Sun, who knows all,

“Does she tell you about me?”

 When the Sun goes down, the poet watches

His little flower, still dispelling all the gloom,

And his heart yearns to believe, “She knows.”

A poetised riddle is what they share, and he

Accepts, a poet in love is not good at riddles.