October (part 7) - Mary Oliver

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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.

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chieftyper 1 semana, 4 días atrás
Beautiful.

Pon a prueba tus habilidades, toma la Prueba de mecanografía.

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