Thunderstorm and Tea


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.

Erlie Lopez