The Dance

I loathe cold coffee,

though I find cool tea palatable.

Beyond explanation,

only one derives from Latin America,

the other from the Orient.


Perhaps entwined

in the hairlike strands of my DNA

lurks an obscure memory

of peasants whirling; bright colors

arcing like rainbow cirrus

striated across deep azure heavens,

or the sensual backsteps of tango –

dark eyes driving deep into my interior,

demanding passion, not complacency.


Tea, on the other hand, is ceremony.

Small cups and dainty painted-on mouths.

I can sip and nothing is demanded,

save appreciation upon inhalation.

Service, too, backs up –

but shuffles, not gyrates away.

Eyes cast downward, indirect.


Life is lustful; she is sublime.

Tides strip out, swirl and eddy –

roll in, crash to shore.

Claps of thunder or the soft pad

of a snow leopard;

Locked in the embrace of paradox,

I submit to the dance.