Tag: summer

Last Days of Summer


Last Days of Summer

Lemon scents linger
from blooms of white magnolia,
while a cool breeze tiptoes,
donned in ornate lace
into a summer dusk cathedral:
I hear the mellow sound of shaken leaves
upon their sun-tanned branches,
harp strings stroked by fingers
of the wind —

The purple grosbeak’s song endures
into the night,
nectared notes delight
as I revel in these ardent days
of crimson apples,
the primrose pulp of aubergine plums,
the musk-white fragrance of orange
blossoms,
the golden cloak of summer’s warmth
upon the vibrant flowers.

by D. G. V. © 2012

** photography by Roman Niku

Originally posted 2012-08-22 20:26:21.

Véraison


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.

—Deirdra Vachal © 2026

Image by Olivier Lemoine (https://Photo-Terroir.fr), CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Sourland Mountain in July

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 collection Where Love Dwells (2025) by Deirdra Garcia Vachal

Photography by Deirdra Vachal

Unexpected Rain

Unexpected Rain

I straddle behind you
on the motorcycle
the sun tans our faces,
your back rests content
with my steady warmth —

we wander
through little known byways
where roads are rough
and vines overgrow their bounds,
and we meander with butterflies
across meadows of wildflowers

then suddenly
the sky breaks open,
pours rain by the buckets,
as wind and water pelt our faces
and little streams
flood our pathways —

I close my eyes,
hold you close,
in a little while
you bring us to a tavern
decked with rain-soaked
begonias:
we step inside,
into laughter and song.

D. G. Vachal ©2025

Image from pixabay

The Fire of Your Fingertips

The Fire of Your Fingertips

I will not take this warmth for granted
as I behold the fire
of your fingertips,
woodwinds of your voice
carried by soft breezes —

tomorrow holds a sheet of white:
leafless branches
in the wintry blizzard winds,
little do I know
if you will be beside me still —

I will not take this warmth for granted
as I behold the fire
of your fingertips.

D. G. Vachal © 2025



Image by Stux@pixabay