Inside her little box of an apartment Lies the elderly woman, While I tell her about the rain That is wetting the roads Outside. Confined to her bed, She cannot even move To the window, without help, To look at the few drops Falling from the sky. The plants she has in pots Cannot feel the rain, either. All they can get Is the “filtered water” Whenever the sullen maid Remembers them. The woman is able To have a roof over her head… But some simple joys, Like savouring the raindrops Which wet that roof, Are beyond her, Small deprivations Can sometimes be big ones.