Magic of Seasons

Oh, favorite, fuzzy one, neglected in the corner. How long since I even glanced your way? You shiver and pill in anticipation of being noticed, cleaned, even aired out just a bit. At last, on this October morn, I hear your cries, and pluck you from the pile. You brush my face and your breath is, wait, not pungent, not even stale, in fact, did somebody wash you while I was away? The dry suds of apartment air and smelly candles have craftily rendered you fresh and soft. Skip the basket, and slip onto me. Mmmm, seasonal self cleaning is the freshest.