Wislawa Szymborska, comes to mind. Here’s one of her poems:
NIEBO
I should have begun with this: the sky.
A window minus sill, frame, and panes.
An aperture, nothing more,
but wide open.
I don’t have to wait for a starry night,
I don’t have to crane my neck
to get a look at it.
I’ve got the sky behind my back, at hand, and on my eyelids.
The sky binds me tight
and sweeps me off my feet.
Even the highest mountains
are no closer to the sky
than the deepest valleys.
There’s no more of it in one place
than another.
It crushes clouds as ruthlessly
as graves.
A mole is no less in seventh heaven
than the owl spreading her wings.
The object that falls in an abyss
falls from sky to sky.
Grainy, gritty, liquid,
inflamed or volatile
patches of sky, specks of sky.
The ksy is everywhere,
even in the dark beneath your skin.
I eat the sky, I excrete the sky/
I’m a trap within a trap,
an inhabited inhabitant,
an embrace emrabced,
a question answerign a question.
Division into sky and earth—
is not the proper why
to contemplate this wholeness
It simply lets me go on living
at a more exact address
where I can be reached promptly
if I’m sought.
My identifying features
are rapture and despair.
.
.
trans. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
Here’s a link to some of her poems online.