I loathe cold coffee,
though I find cool tea palatable.
only one derives from Latin America,
the other from the Orient.
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.