His mama strong and sturdy legged spread balanced for the push.
One gush of water, flow of crimson life, was all it took.
He came with butter yellow crocus shoulder'n through the snow.
He left with goldenrod and asters put'n on their show.

We hurrahed! as we saw the first two hooves - thrust into lantern's light.
Our laughter knit together faces smile'n for the newness in the night.
Mama snort'n, stood her ground, and gave us early hint and warn'n.
This colt was not bout to be her quiet son - he'd grow to be a caution.

Spring and Summer breezes blew and ruffled his red and white.
And he was trouble - yes he was - Punk just craved the fight!
Once he nipped my neck and another time I blocked his kick.
We rolled and wrestled and flattened daisies and never thought of him as sick.

Ol' Punk, he took a thump'n, then seemed to rouse up right.
And even when we tussled hard - his eyes still bristled bright.
He never blew, nor flicked, nor whacked me on the chin.
For a wild-raised, fractious, gypsy horse - he was a gentleman.

The General and Chica pawed and dug the dark, clay ground.
We planted sunny daffodils along the somber mound....
Sunshine yellow on his grave....
To shout out loud and trumpet!
"Here lies a steed - -
A mighty force - -
Punk: equine most elegant."

©Naomi Marshall 2017