Here is a wonderful poem by Nazim Hikmet, 20th century Turkish poet, banned in his own country for 30 years, freezing in Moscow at the end of his life:

The Cucumber

The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard
and still coming down hard:
it hasn't let up all morning.
We're in the kitchen.
On the table, on the oilcloth, spring--
on the table, there's a very tender young cucumber,
pebbly and fresh as a daisy.
We sit around the table staring at it.
It softly lights up our faces
and the very air smells fresh.
We sit around the table staring at it
--amazed...thoughtful...optimistic--
as if in a dream.
On the table, on the oilcloth, hope--
on the table, beautiful days,
a cloud seeded with a green sun,
an emerald crowd impatient and on its way,
loves blooming openly--
on the table, there on the oilcloth, a very tender young cucumber,
pebbly and fresh as a daisy.
The snow is knee-deep in the courtyard
and coming down hard.
It hasn't let up all morning.

(March 1960; translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk)