Up off the Beltway

a wing of concrete and asphalt

sweeps me onto Charles.

The moon hangs straight ahead,

a painting the color of daylily.

By Greenwood and its house of shadows,

daffodils sprout like suns in an

emerald sky.

As I drive the canyon resounding

with frogs,

green sprays the tips of sumac,

and a cascade of white glows

like dogwood deep in Sheppard forest.

On either side oaks stand,

dark witness to winter,

not yet ready to leave.

This is the meaning of Spring.

This is the meaning of Earth.

This is my April, coming home.