spring seems far away, and yet...

In Early April

by Melissa Green

Forsythia foamed for us fifty miles ago, but the farm is stark, a wintry Serengeti.
My nieces' cello, viola and violin beguile us in the parlor where we celebrate
a birthday, their coltish poise poised to—

My father, long dead, would have loved them.We—their passionate triptych—those upwelling melodies—have already disappeared
as chickadees' crosshatchings on the last of the north-facing, smoke-colored snow.