Sometimes in late summer I wont touch anything ,not
the flowers , not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets ; I won't drink
from the pond , I won't name the birds or trees
I won't whisper my own name
One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident
and didn't see me - and I thought
so this is the world.
I'm not in it.
It is beautiful.
October by Mary Oliver
- JoinedJanuary 5, 2020
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Stories by twofarthings
- 2 Published Stories
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