Every time I see the first bright green hues of spring, I’m reminded of this poem by Robert Frost:
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Spring passes quickly into summer here in the Mountain West, so I have to make a deliberate effort to enjoy the season—and get out on the trails to see the tender young grasses, bright willows, dogwoods, and mosses, budding and blossoming trees, and cheerful wildflowers.
