Maise, our dog, lounges on the over-stuffed arm

of the old leather chair which squats squarely

next to a bare window in the front room.

The late afternoon sun pours bright puddles

of warmth on the floor for her to bathe in;

and from which, if inclined, she may muster

yips and growls at people slowly walking

their sweatered dogs on the sidewalk outside.

I fear falling on ice still lingering

on neighborhood paths, so we stay inside.

But that is just an excuse, I hate cold

weather as much as I tolerate heat’s

dominion during the long summer months.

Even when I, like this poem, go nowhere.