Taunting a summer
clinging to its fiery sun
a thunderstorm explodes
one after the other
on a tin roof
and I am caught
between rolling the blanket early
and making a pot of tea.
Tea wins
as I am then, shortly struck
with a fancy to listen too
to thoughts and words thundering
after a drought,
the peppermint wafting fire
yet shyly as rain mist
to my heart.
What is it in tea,
bland in taste and delicate
unlike coffee that rocks the mind
to dance with its musky brew?
Maybe as with the uptight English ladies
of Renaissance, I hazard
life’s a scale of opposites
like rage and calm.
And I drink (or sip) to such a brew
for poetry, and for its soul.