I sometimes forget that the foothills can be green.
When the sight for months on end
has only been variations of slate and brown,
dry sheaves of grass
and ever sinking, muddied ponds.
and it comes so late,
after false hopes
and late snow,
the back and forth of thawing
and refreezing under feet of snow.
but that first day
when I notice just barely perceptible
tones of olive and forest green
in the backdrop of this mountain scene,
it feels like a long-forgotten memory
has suddenly reappeared before my eyes,
that something comes alive inside of me
with the romance of spring.