I Am The Weather 'Youngest Foal' Poem by Andrew Nawroski

Youngest foal!
Fetlocks fore-hoofs find glorious percussion
On earthly pace doth trot
Graceful gaited smooth equine no lancelot.

Through wooded fawns and barren land
Your engaging soul makes its stand
To warm and beds you soon
Then rest for all in angels moon.

Awaken! noble sire!
Tread your way through thorny briar
For man he waits and cruel is he
To take you down that stony road
Where you’ll nay be free.