The fresh, humid, October air
soaks our many layers of clothes,
but inside, we are safe and warm.
We sit silently.
The sound of rain drumming on the tent,
the distant river swollen to constant thunder,
birds calling through the mist.
We rest in ourselves,
with cold nose tips,
exhaling damp and fog.
Waiting.
For our silence to settle,
like leaves, falling when their time has come.
A birch, still green, not ready to let go,
Another already naked, surrendered to the fall.
In the light of our Beloved,
We rise in fall,
only by His grace.
Celebrate life.
Celebrate yourself.Vasant Swaha