Abuela

You didn't finish that one story,
The one about the little Thrush.
And I have now been waiting,
For the happy ending to come.

But you died last year ,
And I couldn't bare to ask you.
Now that my tears are a little dry,
I want or rather need to know.


The people in that old story of yours,
Were living in an Arizona drought.
And they were waiting on the Thrush,
To sing, but you never told if she did.

I thought the Thrush was like a lot you,
At the first glance plain, almost ordinary,
But when she sang she made the rain,
And made the dry land whole again.