![]() I downshift to push uphill and pump to the rhythm of the line: Nothing gold can stay. Writing calls, and before long, the Indian summer sun makes me sweat. I can take my bike out at will, ride for seven hours if I want. ![]() I’ve sent all my children to school, the first year all three are gone. And the day before that, crushed under snow. Then woods open to prairie again, alight with false sunflower, which just yesterday, it seems, was budding. A few asters pop through the spotted shade. I glide down a slope and cruise over a small steam. ![]() As I enter the prairie, stalks of goldenrod wave by the thousands, their studded strands hanging like the light that drips from a firework seconds after it explodes. I hop on my bike and ride to McDonald Woods, the forest preserve nestled behind our neighborhood. ![]() I just can’t get this line out of my head. ![]() Yes, the phrase features famously in The Outsiders.īut I don’t care about that now, don’t care about the scores of articles and web sites siphoning the meaning from the poem, the students across the country hammering out their theses for their first poetry paper of the year. Yes, the line’s from a famous Frost poem. As September flickers out like a candle, this line of poetry marches through my brain: “Nothing gold can stay.” ![]()
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