The Tea Walk

Tea Walk, Part One

The dawn starts calm because of

Her tea walk.

Graceful

Ivory skinned,

Sun-touched, shoulder-length hair

Handling her porcelain cup

In perfect balance, not a drop stirred

Without her permission.

She walks with chamomile

For all to see that

Quiet determination,

Evident in her pastel garments that expose nothing

And flow from head to toe

Like a slow thawing waterfall

Succumbing to spring in the Great White North.

She is to be left alone, in a room secluded from others

To sip her tea and work until

The horizon changes from amber, to gold, to dark violet because

They know she makes it all better.

She knows that the first sip

Renders her seductive, brown eyes closed,

And already she is mapping out her day’s work

So that it easily leads to her night's play.

A shame that such a beauty is

Only appreciated when out of sight.

Katawashishiw is how

the First Nations’ elders

Would describe her.

She evokes calm through confidence,

Assurance that beyond her striking look that

She cannot completely hide behind her clothes,

The acceptance of her own ways

And humility in her eyes

Ring the Cree word true.

Yet when the dusk arrives

Metamorphosis into

A different kind of beauty

Is set in motion.

She brings her lithe ways

Into the bath.

Steam emits,

She kneels, she dips

Keeping balance with gentle fingertips

Just as she did with her tea.

The hourglass shape and soft curves of her body

Now tilts and submerges in

The temperate waters.

Pores opening,

Worries of the day escaping;

Passion seeping in.

The pout of her lips dissipates,

A languid breath allowed in.

With its extended exhale

The Katawashishiw’s eyes

Have taken on a new focus and form.

She is still the beauty,

But her gaze has become that of

A lynx, who senses her prey

Just around the corner of her bathing pool.

She slips out of the tub

Remains nude, glistening from steam and

Ashtangan-like heat created from within

And locates it:

Her man, nude, and asleep.