The rain, of course, as it dings
every leaf on the eucalyptus—
what was it doing there, on the US-

Mexico border, so far from its native
lands? You might have asked your
grandmother that question, she too

so far from home, she too singing
in her beloved Purépecha tongue:
Mederush cancahuish nirash Inguia.

Again, I'm going to sit and drink.
Drink what? The rain. The sorrow
of thirsting for sounds that take us

back among our kind. Is this why
she sat beneath that tree all day,
sweating in the heat? To water

the soil, to plead to the tulips—
they too displaced—grow! grow! grow!
Oh, desperate wish. If they didn't burst

open all spring, not a chance in July.
Then again, who would have guessed
a tree from Australia befriending an

Indígena from the mountains, here
in the arid and dry Sonoran Desert.
Then again, the miracle of summer rain,

and your grandmother's song inside
that song. And the tulips aching
to be free, hum hum humming along.