Grape vines abound on hillsides near,
While ancient trees shed treasured crop;
And all around the earth must give
Account of nourishment received.
In Tuscan land, as always known,
The press of roots in rocky soil
Force ever deep to ferret forth
The form of growth and life itself.
While in a corner, near the house,
A tender care has nurtured there
A portion of another realm,
Of upsprung life from soil bare.
A pleasure to the eye, and more
Than beauty is a patch of bloom,
As Batya’s garden shines beyond
The confines where the flowers grow.