She has come to know their proper names—
not merely rose, nor herb, nor vine,
but those more patient syllables
the scholars gave them, line by line.

She speaks them softly, half aloud,
as though the leaves might better hear:
Lavandula, Achillea,
each sound made careful, crisp, and clear.

The books lie open where she left them,
spines bent to seasons, soil, and rain—
to measured depths and cunning pests,
to loss, prevention, growth, and gain.

She knows what troubles tender roots,
what draws the beetle, blight, and wing;
what thirst will parch, what flood will spoil,
what balance every stem must bring.

No longer does she simply tend—
she studies, marks, records, prepares;
the garden is no idle ground,
but something held within her care.

The morning finds her thus engaged:
a measured hand, a thoughtful eye—
she notes the tilt of eager stems,
the slow decline of those gone dry.

Here, purpose settles in her bones,
more sure than memory’s wandering art;
for what she cultivates in earth
takes root as firmly in her heart.

And if the past should call her back,
it finds her less inclined to roam—
for every leaf and living thing
has drawn her, gently, fully—home.