In came I at the end of the storm
Soaked through to the skin with icy rain
I six or seven weeks old abandoned once again
Too young to believe in the spoken eventuality of spring
Of which the elders told mystically the unseen shifts would bring

Too young to conceptualize the marsh grass
dry, the blue skied sun ablaze in the sky
Too young to believe in clouds of butterfly
Driven forward by the simple wish not to die

Came I to the door and mewling stood
Until it opened and into gargantuan
Heated arms lifted and I folded into them apparently for good

Was I wise?
When in I came
Warmed in those flanneled human arms
Dried with a towel from icy rain
I lie on floors polished to a shining glow
warm, clean and fed I see myself grow

Outside the glass the wind howls
The trees now iced and bare
Would I have lived to test the mythic spring
I know not that, know only this one thing

That should the time actually come when
All outside transforms to warm, scented green
It will through 'pain' of clean impenetrable
Glass by me, safe, ensconced, separated,
Looking out from within - be not ever felt, yet ever seen