Mary Oliver
- October (part 7)
Sometimes in late summer, I won't 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 the 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.
