Safe from the Storm

You miss most of the storms.
The sky flashes in the east
out of the dark broth behind
the purple budding trees
down the street. The wind
flaps at you with empty hand,
all of its knuckles thumping
the mud in the next country.
You stand on your porch with
only the breath of the storm,
a little too aware
of the madness of the world
to even think to give thanks.