Category: Writing

The Living Word, Beheld

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

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

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.​

Where Branches Are Bare

Where Branches Are Bare

Where branches are bare
snow comes down
and where ruby leaves have left
stars alight
upon alabaster boughs.

D. G. Vachal ©2026

Image by Manuel H. @pixabay

Among the Jasmine Blossoms

Among the Jasmine Blossoms

a key opens
my father’s filing cabinet
locked
for so long —

the second drawer
overflows with my letters:
stamped envelopes
squiggly pen strokes
from when I was a child,
a teenager,
a young woman,
a mother —

every letter quietly kept
as a jewel
when they came to him
from far away —

now that I am near
I hear his laughter
while I walk in the garden
among the jasmine blossoms.

D. G. Vachal ©2026

Image Attribution: Mokkie, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons