October, by Mary Oliver
Look, I want to love this world
as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
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.
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.