The season of satsang

cool winds slip
through morning’s shadows
—  no morning, only dawn
—  no shadows, only night
inevitably
effortlessly
turning without motion,
summer ends
fall begins
it is the equinox
in the territory of my heart

fire scours fertile green hills
ablaze in orange and red
burning with the final moments of desire
—  no heat, only light
—  no fire, only bright
Now. Here. in its own time;
unasked for
undreamed of
unbidden
unburdened
harvest comes, vast and deep —
spills itself within my Self
banquet of riches, always here

sublime moment of emptiness
fullness beyond measure
Earth holds her breath in perfect silence:
day equals night
light equals dark
me equals This
one moment
unmeasured
out of time
exhales:
without movement
without turning
without rising
without falling

it is the most sacred of seasons
it is the season of satsang.

~ Gangaji ~