FIRST FROST

October-- when the leaves go brown,

And hints of winter come to mind,

We sense that clocks are running down,

(I almost hear my own unwind).

Reflections on the years that pass,

On names and faces passing still,

Reflected dimly in the glass,

Foreshadowing a coming chill.



Yet we sail onward, undismayed--

Whatever Time and Fate decree,

Until we join the Great Brigade,

At rest beneath the willow tree--

Unfaltering of nerve and heart,

A reunited Class once more,

Never to grieve, never to part,

They'll greet us on the Farther Shore.



RR 9-15-09