Little soldier, so proud you are in crimson tunic,
emerald epaulettes and matching pantaloons.
Stand tall and face bitter autumn winds
which scrape bare the once-green garden wherein once would parade
colored battalions in summer victories, too many to name.
Comrades all in crimson, pink, yellow, white
You knew them well in days of golden summer light,
But the wind; the cruel, autumn wind, must blow.
Stand tall, lonely face the autumn chill.
Colored tunics falter each dwindling day and
ever-lengthened shadows disguise their worth.
Summer glories seem not so long ago;
deserving they may be, reside in dusty memory.
The autumn wind may sting and tunics fade.