While we were on road trips, mum and dad used to sing in harmony from a repertoire of old-time songs this one: "The golden rod is yellow, the leaves are turning brown. The trees in apple orchards with fruit are bending down." Ever since, I've never looked at the nodding heads of September's golden rod without a pang of melancholy for the fleeting season of heat.
While we were on road trips, mum and dad used to sing in harmony from a repertoire of old-time songs this one: "The golden rod is yellow, the leaves are turning brown. The trees in apple orchards with fruit are bending down." Ever since, I've never looked at the nodding heads of September's golden rod without a pang of melancholy for the fleeting season of heat.