The Fleece (Sonnet)

I rest in the closet for most of the year, 

Waiting my turn to come out and play. 

I spend much of my time just waiting for her, 

To pull me back out on a cold winter's day. 

It is not my job to pack the snow, 

Nor my task to throw at the neighbors next door, 

I am simply content to continue alone 

In the task of keeping my little girl warm. 

It is a job of distinction, of honor, of pride 

I am glad that I have the ability to serve, 

There is no other home where I'd rather abide - 

But it doesn't pay much. I want a raise.