Our young son wheezes softly in his sleep
In the middle of our bed, arms embracing
Stuffed animals, favorite blanket in hand.
For years, our bed has been his bed as well.
He knows his formal bedroom is elsewhere,
And he will go there if my wife and I insist.
But absent guests or relatives, we rarely do.
He always smiles on climbing in with us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem