Are you sure you know your mountains view?
Shouldering light,
nature growling,
a more subtle sense high has visited.
We draw nigh to it.
It’s weathered the companion thought,
but it doesn’t speak to itself.
It doesn’t need to think.

It’s wedded to calm,
mountains of calm.
This is not on the fly.
You are in your meditation seat,
and you draw back and find this.
A settled slot you have entered.
I’m five-years-old.
You have left life’s cherished guests outside*
and anything you need.

You’re not looking for payment.
You’re not even looking for release.
You abide there with a spoon,
ready to open the vault of Silence.
This is carved out of thin air
while you’re waiting for the Silence to arrive.
You know the sound of silence.
There were no thoughts moving through your mind.

It’s a conference room
you do not use thought sounds to employ.
You know this is a grounded state
in the hush of thought.
You are beckoning the Silence now,
holding thought at bay,
and then the hurricane.

The fire department is changed into death,
self-awakening
over a river jar.
Ego death’s final round,
it’s a round coming.
Armed to that instruction.

*a variation of a line in the epic poem Savitri by Sri Aurobindo