Mottled colors flutter
like butterflies,
await
the pristine white
canopies —
Wind-parched leaves
mantle the oak-brown
soil with topaz and jasper
above the dormant seeds
of wilted wildflowers —
Hearken to horse-hoof
raindrops,
the muffled fracture
of petioles letting go
at the eleventh hour
when all the coins of time
are spent
and the egrets of winter
alight
upon the emerald cedar
branches.
D. G. Vachal © 2015
Photo credit: Igor Burdin
Might I behold you more intently
in rapid strides of summertime
when the wine flows endless
from the purple vines
and fertile trees,
pastel flowers
beckon
to plentiful pastures —
Now,
in the dregs of February winds
when the wine turns to water,
the feasting table
to scattered breadcrumbs,
in utter starkness
I behold your face
and all that we treasure
beyond flesh and sinew,
bone and marrow,
root and river —
I hold your hand,
feel the rousing of crocuses,
the stirring
of daffodils.
by D. G. Vachal © 2015
*** Photography Credit: Jean Winters Olkonen
Snowstorms congregate
like serried pines
as wind-blown flakes pelt
the pristine wool
of gentle lambs —
There comes a miracle
of seasonal winds
that guides the sails
of quarantined boats
to tranquil, emerald coves —
Light wends around the tents
of shadows,
cloud feathers fall upon the barks
of blossom-bound orchard trees.
D. G. Vachal © 2014
At the end of winter daylight
when lemon passion glows
with the ardor of periwinkle,
at unexpected moments
I remember
a melody long forgotten,
jubilant as a nightingale’s song,
that led my fledgling
heart to soar
towards the blazing stars
once upon the sands of time —
Now, when it matters no more,
I recall the scribbled ink upon the paper,
a voice that called my name,
at twilight’s edge
when my heart beholds the colors,
the warm farewell
of the setting sun.
D. G. Vachal © 2014
There is a winter interim of the heart
when a million white butterflies descend
from ripened cocoons in the sky,
soundless wings flutter,
cluster into spools of wool
for the weaving loom.
Surrounded by the starkness of white
you search for rainbow colors
only to find an empty, outstretched
canvas upon the easel,
an artist’s paintbrush, a pail of gesso,
your naked hands.
There is a winter interim of the heart,
a jagged juncture of time when you discard
easel and paintbrush,
for the weaving of wool,
the molding of sculptures
steadfast in the evanescent snow.
by D. G. Vachal © 2014
*** Photography by Eugene Dudarev
lilies, sparrows and grass 