Inconceivable

How, may I ask, could I allow
my child to tread so close to the edge,
without shouting a warning?
If I should tangle
with the stabbing thorns of fear
or landslides of self-doubt --
it is my very own rock-and-a-hard-place.
If the bough should break, the cradle
shall fall, taking my heart with it.
The whir of dark thoughts
clouds my mind. I feel like
a seamstress threading
a needle in the dark.

My mother-heart must allow learning
by consequence or obedience.
How near to the edge do I tread
before the vertigo of indecision
plummets me to my own demise?
Can I save my own flesh and blood
or will I drown in an ocean of guilt,
rescue attempt gone awry?
It is inconceivable to contemplate
this endless dark night of the soul,
or your cruel muttering,
"I told you so."
How do you finally let go?