The Charge of the Brown Brigade

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The Charge of the Brown Brigade

Like so many lemmings blindly leaping
To join a game of follow-the-leader,
Every year around October
They decide to descend, all sweeping
Down on an evening breeze.
           The first,
The frailest, leads this charge of the brown
Brigade with scarce a single sound,
And silently, as though rehearsed,
They follow, whispering down the wind
To scrape the Autumn dirt.
         “It’s as if
They share a common mind, as if
They think as one.”
        I notice then
The troubled look on the freckled face
Beside me.
       “But Ms. O’hara says
We’re not to follow the crowd. She says
To be yourself.”
  I gently mess
The auburn hair and watch the leaves
Come circling down from overhead.
“Your teacher’s right.” A burnished red
Has blanketed the house’s eaves.
     “But still,” I say in a subtler tone,
     “We weren’t created to age alone.”



                                    

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