This morning I am thinking of the Estonian poet Jan Kaplinski, Zen Buddhist and linguist. Now winter frost comes to the trees and early, too dark for neighbors, I bent to the frozen grass and found a maple leaf in ice–so perfect it was a child’s wish. And the moon, just past full, was imperial above black windows. My heart was loud under my shirt as I stood on the lawn. Soon the essence of things will be more visible. The leaves are gone now.
Planet of the Blind 