… back from my travels… I turn around and once again, it’s Almost April
Almost April:
when crocuses,
aconites
speckle colors
on frigid earth,
and buried bulbs unfurl
their green fingers —
Somewhere
a cold cauldron sits
atop a flame,
warmth simmers:
imperceptible
as approaching dawn.
Almost morning:
when softest tones tiptoe
through purple darkness,
and wakening lark arises
in radiant song,
ruptures
daybreak deafness.
Almost laughter.
by D. G. Vachal © 2012
The Edge of Bloom
Almost, at this moment:
no matter how feeble the light
upon the trees,
despite this night benumbed,
there are buds that tiptoe
at the pinnacle of jagged cliffs,
careening
at the edge
of bloom —
this miracle,
this dance of beauty
cannot be halted,
cannot be restrained.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Image by Wikimedia Commons
The Sound of Snow
Lace and flannel fall
on February ground,
like flocks of woolen lambs
huddled
upon the leafless hills—
Tell me,
can you hear the sound of snow,
catch the tranquil meekness
quite unlike
the clamor of rain
or the tumult of sleet,
horse hoofs that trample
the cobblestones —
garments with diamonds
descend,
clothe the naked branches,
there are no echoes
from their voiceless song,
no footsteps
to their elegant
dance.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Photography: Winter Trees by T. Frarug
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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