Jaan Kaplinski. Photo by Raivo Tasso/Estonian Institute.
The possibility of rain… If rain is possible everything is possible: spinach, lettuce, radish and dill, even carrots and potatoes, even black and red currants, even swallows above the pond where you can see the reflection of the full moon, and bats flying. The children finish playing badminton and go in. There's a haze to the west. Little by little the fatigue in my limbs changes to optimism. I dream I borrow a plane to fly to Cologne. I must go in too. The sky's nearly dark, a half-moon shining through birch branches. Suddenly I feel myself like an alchemist's retort where all this - heat, boredom, hope and new thoughts - is melting into something strange, colourful and new.
The washing never gets done. The furnace never gets heated. Books never get read. Life is never completed. Life is like a ball which one must continually catch and hit so it won't fall. When the fence is repaired at one end, it collapses on the other. The roof leaks, the kitchen door won't close, there are cracks in the foundation, the torn knees of children's pants … One can't keep everything in mind. The wonder is that beside all this one can notice the spring which is so full of everything continuing in all directions - into the evening clouds, into the redwing's song and into every drop of dew on every blade of grass in the meadow, as far as the eye can see, into the dusk.
Prayer is just what remains when all is said and there is nothing more to say God is what remains when all in which one can believe comes to an end and there is nothing to believe in with hay still in the loft and bread on the table under a white linen cloth I've written about all of this before as have others before me before all of us but the day is near when there shall be no difference between my saying everything in just a couple words and nothing in all of them