Outside my black rainy window upstairs

which is letting in cold night breeze

the poplars' applause sounds welcoming, gentle, and

makes me want to go sleep under the trees.

Tomorrow in the secret woods I will
pitch my tent,

act calm all day, when everyone sees,

only to steal away when night is falling

so that I can go sleep under the trees.

Oaks will stand stoically, as though I'm not there;

Hawthorns will reach for me, prickly but pleased;

Poplars break into applause once again

to see me come out to sleep under the trees.