Thirty degrees means wool socks and thermal tee’s,
A heater struggling to puff out warm air like a pathetic dragon,
A hedgehog huddled against me, quivering quills prickling.
There’s no fear of winter slumber—I keep it toasty for her like Africa,
The birthplace of spiny relations, a land of delicious, sweltering heat.
We burrow beneath Sherpa posing as wool and envy basking lions.
Her quills yield as she warms and they soon lie smooth and lazy.
She stretches, soothed, to sprawl flat on her belly, flat as her quills,
All content and sweet like hot cocoa, rebelling against winter’s chill.