Pumpkin pie spice floats
from the oven's load of
sweet potato cookies.
Annie and Buddy doze
on the quilt-covered futon –
aloof – so it seems --
to the allure of
such human treats.
We all hunker down.
March has blown in
with snow swirling
past the kitchen window.
We'll all walk
when afternoon warms up –
no marching for us
among fluffy snow and flocked pines.
March is such a marshal word
and doesn't play well
with cookies and slumbering dogs.