Sick Bed

When I am sick I like to stay in bed
Where I can rest until I’m well again.
I like the pillows propped beneath my head,
And for someone to fluff them now and then.
When I am sick I have the strangest dreams,
Perhaps because I sleep and wake so much,
Where everything is nothing as it seems,
And fades away as I reach out to touch.
The last time I was sick I dreamed a bird
Sat in my room and sang to me all day.
And I could understand his every word;
I wished that he would never go away.
His song was like a comfort-bearing spell
In which he told me soon I would be well.