The Cliff

One could scarcely blame the way
she stretched her arms, the sweater
caught up in the wind as though
her arms were like as wings,
and should she dare to step her foot
from off the edge she just might soar.

Who could get their toes the closest
to the edge they dared to try and be
the one who mastered most their fear
of heights; imagine as they would
that they could fly and join up with
the petrels in the sky.

To be as one the sailors of the storm,
to fall beneath its waves and rise again
and live forever in the body of a bird,
They’d be lost sailors in their youth
immortalized in superstition’s myth.
True, they faced their fears upon that cliff

and left behind the guttural cry
to those prevailing winds, left them to
the westerlies who bore all sorrows nigh.
They were brave for stepping to the edge
and braver still for facing all the life
they still had left.

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