Storm Down the sidewalks, water runs like a stream while under the Maple tree, a pool, the ground soaked, can't take anymore. A gust of wind. I see a spray flying as if coming from a garden hose held by a two year old with unintended direction. Rain taps on the roof, sometimes urgently, sometimes softly, playing its own unappreciated symphony. "Rainfall turned streets and lawns into impassable rivers," I hear the radio say, "as cars disappear under the current of the seriously wayward creeks." A burst of cold wind rushing through a slightly open window reminds me of another time, another storm. A storm like this that lasted for days, came to an island on the other side of the world, where people depend on the sea and homes are boxes on top of poles. "Life comes before property," they say, "homes can be repaired." But this storm left them broken and terrified. Lives were lost, no home was spared. That was a long time ago, in my old home. Now, here I sit in the safety of my house, watching calmly, behind glass windows, the fury of a storm.
M. K. Kraus's Questions:
Did the last stanza portray how I feel about my old home, how far away I am
and how I
wish things were different for my people?