Tag: poems

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.​

The Turning of Light


The cover of my second poetry book collection, The Turning of Light, features Claude Monet’s luminous painting, Woman With a Parasol, Facing Left (1886), one of the most beloved images of the Impressionist movement.​

​In the painting, Monet captured more than a woman standing in a field. He captured a moment of living light — clouds drifting across the sky, wind moving through tall grass, and sunlight shifting across the landscape.​

​Nothing in the scene is still. Light moves, the sky changes, and the moment itself seems to pass even as we look at it.​

​That quiet transformation of light lies close to the spirit of the poems in The Turning of Light, which follow the turning of the seasons and the subtle ways time reshapes memory, love, and the inner life.​​


The Turning of Light can be found on Amazon in Kindle, paperback, and hardcover versions.

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