In the Candlelight
the white curtains
lifted once
in the evening wind,
settled
like a thought
unspoken
a candle flame—
scents of gardenia,
magnolia,
Spanish moss
drift through the room
a voice
deep and tonal
softly calls my name
barefoot I run
across the bedroom’s
mahogany floor,
grasp
brass handles—
the door opens wide—
your eyes
in the candlelight
D. G. Vachal © 2026
Image by Melanie H.H. @pixabay
The Light by the Window
the doorknob felt cold
you stood there
your eyes—
I could not enter them
only silence
I waited
for your voice
to call me back
only silence
I stepped into the night
the light by the window
flickered
blocked by your shadow
D. G. Vachal ©2026
While reading Hermann Hesse’s “The Living Word” (from Seasons of the Soul), I was struck by a quiet and enduring truth: that the Word, however sacred, however beautiful, is never meant to be held at a distance. It must be lived, or it loses its life within us.
His poem does not argue this, it simply reminds. And in that reminder, something in me answered: What happens when truth is no longer contemplated, but encountered, when it is no longer spoken, but beheld?
I found myself returning to a poem I had written some time ago, and I now read it differently:
When Truth and I Behold Each Other
When Truth and I behold each other,
my heart pulsates to the tempo of the soft-
spoken mist of rain that tiptoes
after the last bellow of the drunken
thunder has been silenced —
I forget this leavened flesh,
I am no longer
a tree walking
in my tannin espadrilles,
the alabaster egrets carry
my gesturing branches
across the turquoise oceans —
I am left with my eyes
sown in the meadow of the galaxies,
primordial light-years turn transparent
corneal sheaths
into the sun’s corona —
the brilliance is beyond diamonds.
— D. G. Vachal
Perhaps this is one way of receiving the “living word” — not as something we hold, but as something that overtakes us, reshapes us, and carries us beyond ourselves.
Love’s Return
thaw—
chameleon-clad hylas
swarm the moss-green ponds
and buds of water lilies
arise from stalks
among the mottled pads—
I thought you were gone,
buried under hills of snow—
now you return
in the low hum of bees,
the soft whisper
of butterfly wings
I feel you near
in the warmth—
yet I somehow know
you have always been
with me in the cold.
— D. G. Vachal 2026
Image: Seerosen (1915) by Claude Monet
Almost April — there is a moment just before spring fully arrives,
when nothing seems to have changed,
and yet, everything has already begun.
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
— D. G. Vachal
This poem is from my collection
The Turning of Light
a book that follows the quiet unfolding
of the seasons within and around us.
If you’d like to explore the full collection:
The Turning of Light
Image (public domain): William J. Forsyth (American, 1854–1935), Crocuses, oil on canvas.
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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