Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone,
with not a single friend,
for they are all smilers and talkers
and therefore unsuitable.
I don’t really want to be witnessed
talking to the catbirds or
hugging the old black oak tree.
I have my way of praying,
as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone
I can become invisible.
I can sit on the top of a dune
as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned.
I can hear the almost unhearable sound
of the roses singing.
If you have ever gone to the woods with me,
I must love you very much.
Poem by Mary Oliver: How I Go to the Woods