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I'm a writer @ Babcock University
Where The Yellow Dress Turns
<p><span style="background-color: transparent;">I came to the islands</span></p><p>thinking I was far from home,</p><p>an African wandering</p><p>across a borrowed sea.</p><p>But the drums found me first, </p><p>soft, calling, familiar, </p><p>as if the earth remembered</p><p>my footsteps before I made them.</p><p><br/></p><p>Then she stepped into the courtyard,</p><p>a woman carved from sunlight,</p><p>her yellow dress</p><p>whirling like a prayer set free.</p><p>She moved with the easy grace</p><p>of someone who knows</p><p>that joy is a birthright</p><p>no ocean can drown.</p><p><br/></p><p>Her laughter lifted the air,</p><p>and I felt something old</p><p>stir in my chest, </p><p>a rhythm I had not carried</p><p>since childhood markets</p><p>and village festivals,</p><p>when the world spun this same way,</p><p>warm and certain.</p><p><br/></p><p>For a moment</p><p>she caught my gaze,</p><p>and in that brief crossing of eyes</p><p>I felt the distance collapse, </p><p>Africa greeting its reflection</p><p>on another shore.</p><p><br/></p><p>Around us, colours bloomed,</p><p>palms whispered above the arches,</p><p>and the crowd clapped in a circle</p><p>of borrowed sunlight.</p><p>I stepped toward her,</p><p>not as a stranger,</p><p>but as someone answering</p><p>a call written before memory.</p><p><br/></p><p>And as her dress turned again,</p><p>bright as morning,</p><p>I understood:</p><p><br/></p><p>Home is not a place, </p><p>it is a rhythm.</p><p>And sometimes</p><p>you find it dancing</p><p>in the heart</p><p>of a Caribbean evening.</p>
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