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.”