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?