He is wrapped up in warmth,
piled high with blankets.
His right hand holds his stuffed dog,
fingers moving slightly
despite his sleep.
In dreams a little boy
is larger than himself, strong,
conquering that which
would threaten him.
In life he breathes deep
through his mouth,
coughs now and then,
a cold having settled
in the depths of his chest.
When he is sick
he seems smaller, I think.
We are all much smaller
than we tend to believe.
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