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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.

—Mary Oliver

~

... to find the feeling of infinity
on the horizon line
or just over the next hill.

—Georgia O'Keeffe

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Poem: Up-Hill

Poem: The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska

Poem: Hill

Poem: Hill of the Bees

Poem: Hill Water

Poem: hill wife

Poem: Hill Walk

Poem: Hill Top

Poem: Jerimoth Hill

Poem: August 12 in the Nebraska Sand Hills Watching the Perseids Meteor Shower

Poem: Hill Quietness

Poem: Hill Speech

Poem: Hill Journey

Poem: Hill-Born

Poem: Bernal Hill

Poem: Vinegar Hill

Poem: The Hill

Poem: The Hill

Poem: The Hills of Sewanee

Poem: Foreign Hills

Poem: Among the Hills

Poem: Quaker Hill

Poem: The Hill of the Hawks

Poem: The Hill We Climb

Poem: Five A.M. in the Pinewoods

Poem: In the Nursing Home

Poem: In January, 1962

Poem: Fern Hill

Poem: The Dark Hills

Poem: Her Grave

Poem: Cheerios

Over the Hills and Far Away

Lauryn Hill

Lynn Hill

Cypress Hill

Berkeley Hills

O’Keeffe hills

Land of a Thousand Hills

Hill

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