I have sat upon this cliff for eighteen years –
I know its view well;
I have paced the rocky edges - 
I have watched those who fell.

Eighteen years I have looked
Beyond the perilous precipice –
I have seen the deadly stones;
I have felt these winds cease.

My hands are coarse from needlework,
Pricked time and time again;
My scissors lie in mute,
Next to my needles and my pins.

My sewing basket is now emptied,
Void of everything to give.
The cloth now trails behind me
As I walk the edge’s end. 

The winds scream against me
As I sit upon the ledge,
And I let the heights torment me…
Because my time has met its end.

I pull upon my lap
This odd mess of parachute…
Just to look once more – just to see
The stitches I labored through.

The clumsy, thick yarn
Betrays my early days;
Garish, careless colors…
But they were happily made.

Look at that patch, that one right there –
I remember laughing when I made it;
I stitched those pieces on
Before I had a care.

The stitches grew neater
As I set my mind to wild thread - 
They spun with fiery fantasy,
Lost in the worlds to which I fled.
Near the end, in the middle,
My stitches are strong.
Perhaps a little erratic,
But they certainly belong.

Strongest are these pieces
Of my own design;
Music and laughter
That I gave from my mind.

My scarred fingers slide across
Some stitches not my own;
Made by others who went before me –
Who stood upon cliffs of their own.

Then there lies the clumsy work
Stained with tears and memories:
My trembling hands, mending rips
Where black regrets still bleed.

Nearby that darkened edge
Are some pieces not of mine.
Others shared theirs with me;
They gave so I’d survive.

The most beautiful patches,
And sadly, the least I see,
Are the patchworks I made for others,
From threads very dear to me.

I have seen people leap,
Time and time again;
I have seen some who fall,
I have see some who live and win.

It is my turn now,
Upon this howling cliff.
Eighteen years I have waited;
I have paid my dues in shift.

A child is coming.
From behind me he walks;
His face is frightened; lonely…
He can scarcely talk.

I simply hand him my sewing basket
And tell him the only rule:
Don’t jump until you’re ready;
Until your parachute is full.

Now I turn and savor
The rich and boundless sky;
Into the eagle’s view,
Now my own mind’s eye.

The nervous child watches
As I step back from the brink…
I clench my fists and tell him:
Watch carefully; and do not blink.

The earth is soft beneath me
As I catapult into a run;
I am young and strong and burning
As the winds laugh in roaring fun.

Fear is racing with me,
Right beside my side
As the cliff rushes towards me
And the child waves goodbye...

The skies rage in fury
As I launch from the cliff:
The ledge plunges beneath me
As the winds writhe and twist -

        I leap.

After eighteen years of sewing,
I hurtle into the abyss;
Another child watches
Far behind, upon the cliff. 

As the air rushes around me,
I remember how to scream.
I pull my parachute;
I tear at my patchwork string…

It is time to see if this kills me,
Or if this becomes my wings.