There are sunsets, and then there are moments like Crimson Horizon—where time slips loose from the hours, and light becomes a language only the soul understands. I stood on Menemsha Beach, the sand still warm from a day’s holding, the Atlantic breathing in dusk with infinite patience. Just as the sun bowed beneath the waterline, it cast a seam of scarlet across the sea—one final exhale before nightfall. This photograph captured that threshold, where color and quiet meet, where everything unnecessary falls away. My mother once told me her spirit would always be near the ocean, and here, in this hush of fire and tide, I felt her. Not in memory, but presence.
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Poem: Crimson Horizon
The sun unstitched the sky—
a slow unraveling of flame
that left the ocean blushing
as if it, too, remembered
a love it never dared to name.
Menemsha held its breath,
the tide curled soft as prayer—
what is it to witness endings
that feel more like beginnings,
without needing to be sure?
Somewhere beneath the crimson,
an old silence stirred awake—
not absence, but return,
as if the sea could summon
every name the heart won’t break.
No gulls called, no wind rose,
only the hush of what remains
when time forgets itself—
when the light is less a beacon
and more a threshold of grace.
And I stood there, Ocean,
not seeking signs, not hoping—
only listening with my whole life
to the water’s whispered vow:
She never really left.