A story is told of a convalescent woman and the lovely vine that grew in her yard. Confined to her property during her long recovery from an accident, she turned her attention to the little plot of ground behind her home. She planted the vine on a cool spring morning, dreaming of the day when, given enough time and care, it would grow to cover the wall that marked the boundary of her property.
The woman loved her plant and tended to it conscientiously, pruning it, watering it, nourishing it. Under her care it took root and grew steadily, always reaching, always grasping, always clinging, as it spread both upward and outward. Before many seasons had passed, it covered her wall with its lush green leaves. But, despite her best efforts, it produced blossoms that were very tiny and very few. Nevertheless, she found in her plant a source of great wonder and true delight.
And so did the townsfolk, for unbeknownst to her, the roots had pressed beneath the foundation of the wall, the branches had pushed through its cracks, and the tendrils had reached up and over its top where
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