Sitting down at a cliff, my feet bare and dangling-

I stare at a horizon that’s confounding and mangling.

Where one should see glistening sunlight and all,

an iciness glooms in the form of a squall.

A hollering wind blew down from fell shadows

stealing the Good from the ones who bestow

kindness to strangers, as said by St. Paul-

unusual – I wonder to the face of a squall.

This kindness flies over and under and through

and cuts into natures of hate – like a coup.

Something that causes precipitous grace

blanketing iciness over in glace.

I sit on the cliff, my feet cold and misused –

while my dangling thoughts, now bright and suffused

cover a page that is much less embrangled.

I put on my shoes and go forth to the mangled.