Englewood Beach showed off tonight – like nature knew she had one last curtain call before the storm rolled in.
(A Spoken Word Poem)
Golden fire licked the edge of the world –
not a goodbye,
but a bold “not yet”
to the storm waiting in the wings.
Sky split open with brooding bruises,
clouds heavy with secrets,
but the light?
Oh, the light refused to bow.
The Gulf didn’t flinch.
Didn’t rage.
Didn’t roar.
She shimmered.
Silent.
Defiant.
Like she knew stillness was stronger than chaos
when you let it be.
And there he stood –
one man,
half-swallowed by the surf,
casting into an ocean
that never promised anything back.
Rod in hand,
but it wasn’t about the fish.
It never is.
He was chasing peace,
the kind that can’t be bottled,
sold,
or sermonized.
Because sometimes prayer isn’t kneeling.
It’s standing.
Waist-deep in wonder.
Letting the water hush your mind
while the wind untangles your soul.
This beach?
This moment?
It wasn’t just pretty.
It was preaching.
No stained glass,
no choir.
Just waves clapping,
and the sky –
the sky delivering gospel in gold and ash.
Englewood didn’t give us a sunset tonight.
It gave us a truth.
It gave us a sermon.
And damn…
was it holy.
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