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From a collection called "The World" by Czeslaw Milosz

 

The peonies bloom, white and pink.

And inside each, as in a fragrant bowl,

A swarm of tiny beetles have their conversation,

For the flower is given to them as their home.

 

Mother stands by the peony bed,

Reaches for one bloom, opens its petals,

And looks for a long time into peony lands,

Where one short instant equals a whole year.

 

Then lets the flower go. And what she thinks

She repeats aloud to the children and herself.

The wind sways the green leaves gently

And speckles of light flick across their faces.