a stillness, a widow’s veil enshrouds the air bluebird feathers, cardinal wings fade into the twilight’s violet silence—
on the eve of the new moon an inky osmosis blends earth and sky into velvet darkness the rain arrives upon parched soil, releases the primal musk of petrichor, starfire quenched by ebony rainclouds—
I leave you now with the soft footsteps of the rain
tomorrow when the sky is cleansed beyond the silent moon the stars will sparkle like sapphires once again.
A July storm passes through the vineyard and in its wake, the first silent signs of ripening appear.
Véraison
the white heat of July slowly brewed an ink-stained sky a grey mesh blankets the vines upon trellises while a deafening thunderclap shakes the ground beneath, lingering in its fury—
after the thunder’s last murmur come torrents of rain— wet pedicels swell, strain under heavy-laden clusters, bark and cordon turn ebony under the storm’s shadow—
the camouflage fractures after the rain, side-swept leaves expose hidden clusters: amethyst beads among the celadon pearls.
Some landscapes quietly become part of our lives. I took this photograph years ago on a midsummer walk through Sourland Mountain in New Jersey. The poem that follows grew from that same summer afternoon and carries with it the deep green stillness of July.
Sourland Mountain in July
The asphalt fajita pan sizzles, white papal smoke ascends from black aluminum, scorches naked feet, temperatures climb, calibrated for the appointed broiling of flesh—
Sourland Mountain at noonday in July: I listen to the psalms of emerald leaves upon twigs and branches uplifted in praise, the songs of the scarlet tanager, melodious with the orchestra of Monét clouds in this gated city of chlorophyll, a uniform green madness—
Though I walk through the hardness of rocks and boulders, I will not take this green for granted, I mumble on every single leaf of fern, weed and tree, revel in the uncomfortable warmth, while the green is teeming
at this very moment
before the gradual accumulated turnings of the universe, of sun, moon and stars awaken the coldness from its slumber, before the leaves turn into empty brown paper bags blown by the wind.
—Deirdra Vachal
From the poetry collectionWhere Love Dwells (2025) by Deirdra Garcia Vachal
𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐥 The tide made docking difficult— I hold glowing coals from gripping ropes, my hair is a nest of straws harvested from ocean fields. I stand on the bow and watch you at the helm against a Monét sky, the coins of day spent, your face burnt and content from cranking chrome winches and pulling halyards amidst twenty knot winds: the sloop keeled at wild angles clowning with whitecaps, and the scents of salt and seaweed filled our nostrils and we soared with the seagulls. — D. G. Vachal from Vachal, D. G. (2026), The Turning of Light, (Amazon)
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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