Redux

In June, I wrote and posted this poem entitled Safe. In my conscious mind, I was writing about my Mother although deep inside I knew the intensity of emotion bubbling up while writing was a signal that I was also writing about myself.

This morning, after a long night and an even longer day and night ahead, I know that all I want is embodied in the word Safe. With my tight and restrictive definition of that word, I won't get there because, like the word Perfect, safe does not exist.

Safe

All she ever wanted was to be safe.
An elusive place, found intermittently
when least expected, impossible to design,
Refractory to control.
The prized nugget, often the purpose to living.
Comfort and assurance.
Peace and restful sleep.
Living backwards, noting that what had passed was safe.
Rejoicing in retrospect that life was full; fun.
The moment of now uncertain, only perhaps safe.
Tormented by dread of future loss, unsafe territory looming.
Always.

What is safe? Depends.
So little of it comes from the interior landscape,
although she knows this is the only place where safe resides.
External factors and desire for control over a restless,
moving shoreline that defies comfort,
Even in the beauty of its unpredictability,
the breath of moments, one after another.
A consuming battle to the end of life, terminal.
Seeking the peace that passeth all understanding,
Yearning for the safe that resides everywhere and nowhere
A life, incomplete, paralyzed by anticipatory loss
until the precious arms of safe come to welcome her home.