Storm

Two gens back,
Her flicker and boom
sent a message.
Our forebears heeded, mindful,
yet now we've gone arrogant,
grumbling over traffic,
late to work,
then cozy inside, call ourselves
lucky.

We chat over bits of plastic and metal raped raw from Her flesh,
ignorant, distant from Her, and
lucky.

Two gens on,
our children will curse the luck,
spit on our graves,
and know Her again.