His Dew (O’er Grass): Lessons from the Gullah Isles

By C.Z. HEYWARD

The susurrations of His morning call
reflected in the morn as algid mist

In this ritual I love to watch dragonflies chase sleepless fireflies who wanted to be butterflies

My feet bare, as were hers
I mirrored my grandmother’s steps as we crossed the peacock and teal tapestry

My feet became bathed by Him as He had done for Peter
An asomatous cleansing that started with our soles

I often wonder why they’re called blades?
They should be called feathers
or wings, for my heart takes flight with each crystalized step

At the coup the symphony is predictable yet always delightful
Scratches and pecks

Scratches and pecks

And then I watch dragonflies chase sleepless fireflies who wanted to be butterflies o’er grass

C.Z. Heyward is a native of Harlem, New York, who cherishes his summers spent on the coastal isles of Charleston, South Carolina. His work has appeared in a variety of print and online journals. He has also presented his work at the Nuyorican Cafe in New York City, and the Artlinks Festival in Athens, Greece.

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