Riddle Me This

Riddle me this:

How many blossoms unopened at best,
may land in the autumn, forever in rest.

Have they been let fall? What is it yet,
for the blossoms to fall, is it hope or regret?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

What is to know, and less for to see,
if truth is obscure and barely your need?

For the words on the page, seem idle and weak,
but simplicity begs the truth that you seek.

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

I can't lift it up, as I can't change a view.
Impossible to steal, yet stolen from you.

Now ought I to try, not to refrain,
stealing the stolen back home again?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

The chill of the winter, may shatter the road.
The heat of the summer may liquefy gold.

What is the virtue, of knowledge untold,
when hope chills the heat and warms winter cold?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Were the signs not enough, shown through the law,
of natural preference in a leaf with no flaw?

Or the beams of the sun, or wind now explained?
Yet interpret you will, away and ashamed.

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Could the mouse do much better than the dragon to chase,
or the fish than the horse in winning a race?

Compare to the truth of fear versus faith,
how is the message, and how would it change?

So riddle me this.
Riddle me this:

Encased in the moment, forgotten in time;
was in fragments shattered, like forsaken signs.

Is there hope to recover, or sight to regain,
or neither an answer for nothing to feign.

Please riddle me these
Riddle me this,
I beg and I plead
you will not dismiss.
Riddle me, riddle me,
Riddle me this.

Sera Johnson © 2009