Aguacero

Clear North and dark South; downpour is coming for sure.
On tiptoes, so it doesn't hurt, my memory brings the voice
of grandma: 'the years make us free, or prisoners.
A half-empty glass is also half full.
Life is a window, or a dumpster, depending on
the passenger's point of view that defines it. The water comes, thunder announces us.
Blinking, the sky spills over.'

My grandma's hand leads me through the downpour
to a different city, where life was lived without fear.
No bars on the windows, hitmen or beggars,
nor spiders making nests in our hopes and dreams.
The water is coming. Downpour.

My city has become tough and tastes like fire,
a whirlwind of vultures saddening its roofs.
But my confidence grows, seeing through the downpour
the face of my grandma, who makes me believe I can.
Clear dark, gray silence. Hope: leaf in the wind.
It smells like water and today, once again, our neighborhood breathes sky.
The water is coming, another time. Grandma: I think I can.
Water about to fall!