Polonaise in A-Flat Major, Op. 53
The last gold of evening
lingered
upon the piano keys
after the music
had already ended—
I come back to the old piano
my mother used to play
her etudes and concertos,
the ivory keys
yellowed by time—
suddenly I hear
the ecstatic pounding
of Chopin’s Polonaise
in A-Flat Major—
my mother’s hands
striking the old piano
long after evening
had darkened
D. G. Vachal © 2026
Accompanying image created with AI assistance
In the Candlelight
the white curtains
lifted once
in the evening wind,
settled
like a thought
unspoken
a candle flame—
scents of gardenia,
magnolia,
Spanish moss
drift through the room
a voice
deep and tonal
softly calls my name
barefoot I run
across the bedroom’s
mahogany floor,
grasp
brass handles—
the door opens wide—
your eyes
in the candlelight
D. G. Vachal © 2026
Image by Melanie H.H. @pixabay
The Light by the Window
the doorknob felt cold
you stood there
your eyes—
I could not enter them
only silence
I waited
for your voice
to call me back
only silence
I stepped into the night
the light by the window
flickered
blocked by your shadow
D. G. Vachal ©2026
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 — 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.
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