By Judy MaCarthy
Sunflowers . . . sing a hymn of praise for late summer. / David Greenfield
In Pennsylvania, goldenrod lined the highway.
A common wildflower, oft disparaged
except in England, it has an amiable,
sunny, steadfast, disposition.
In Ohio, pale yellow stalks of drying corn reminded us
of sun-kissed summer days, of picnics on the porch,
of bright sunrises and softly glowing sunsets that,
like butter, melt deliciously into night.
In Missouri, mustard-colored sunflowers danced along
road sides, their faces turned toward the sky’s golden orb
as if to soak up its healing warmth or, maybe, to sing
a hymn of praise for late summer.
In Kansas, a rolling land dominated by huge sky,
we drove as if in a sun globe. At day’s end, we were dry,
sun-scorched, blinded creatures, held fast by the
commanding, hypnotizing gaze of Ra.
In Colorado, verdant conifers mixed with vermilion aspen
led our eyes upward to the rugged, jagged
mountain peaks where gods reside, and downward
to mountain streams where humans pan for gold.
In sun-drenched Utah, we hiked down into
canyons and caverns inhabited by
other-worldly hoodoos, and up onto ledges
where multi-shaped arches paid homage to the sun.
New England’s poet, Robert Frost, said
“Nothing gold can stay.” But here in God’s
country, which is also our own,
we are gold, and, with grace, will surely stay.
After a late summer 2015 auto trip to Utah to do some hiking, Judy was convinced that Robert Frost’s poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay” was dead wrong!
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