Casa Petrarca

We know from letters Petrarch in old age
Had settled down at Arquà, just beside
Those cities where his patrons lived and led
The tyrant’s life he honored but decried.

'Twas there he built, and gardened, and pursued
Those hobbies of a worn, defeated man.
New letters came; long treatises that called
On resurrecting Rome by Latin’s hand.

And still he gardened, built himself a home,
Wrote missives, asked for patience, warned of haste.
Each summer grapes would sprout up, vines that rose
To take away life’s bitter aftertaste.

Since then that garden withered. Now instead
A parking lot, where men in well-pressed suits
Arrive on tour, like long-lost rightful heirs
Who lay their claim to Europe’s dried out roots.

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