A Riddle That Blossoms

It’s a poem I wrote, belonging to a couple of warriors in my book. They’ve just survived something horrible, and the anger and hatred which drove them to survive it–those emotions are giving way to a secondary primal emotion (if you will allow). The older warrior recalls a poem he learned as a younger man, introducing it to the younger with this sentence:

“It starts as a riddle, and then,” he paused for a moment, “it blossoms.”

I think it scans well. I hope you enjoy it.

Who is she?

She rises in the east to rouse the sun

She prises from the bed to house her son

Herself and all her own.

A master with a lord

The lord who prostrate falls

whose steadfast will is one that stands

To disappear beneath the sands

Which softens then recalls

The sun in darkness hiding.

Nine months tides she calls the biding

The softened will is growing bright

And she changes with the sun in sight

A fruited flower softened.

She gives a son

A son of the will of the lord

whose steadfast falling is a ford

Across the ocean’s tides

To the east beyond the sun

Where she rises and rouses

And she prises and houses

Her husband and her son