Wislawa Syzmborska, for me. When lighthearted, she has depth, and when dark, she keeps a glimmer of light.

  The Joy of Writing

  Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
  For a drink of written water from a spring
  whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
  Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
  Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
  she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
  Silence - this word also rustles across the page
  and parts the boughs
  that have sprouted from the word "woods."

  Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
  are letters up to no good,
  clutches of clauses so subordinate
  they'll never let her get away.

  Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
  of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
  prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
  surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.

  They forget that what's here isn't life.
  Other laws, black on white, obtain.
  The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
  and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
  full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
  Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
  Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
  not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.

  Is there then a world
  where I rule absolutely on fate?
  A time I bind with chains of signs?
  An existence become endless at my bidding?

  The joy of writing.
  The power of preserving.
  Revenge of a mortal hand.