Her first flowerpots convince her
not to change her name, she so taken
with the blooms in dirt.
She grows by bringing
water, seeking light for something
not herself. Humility
is transplanting one
into another bed
and asking it to thrive,
all the more difficult, precious
for being separate.
Calling their names like pulling petals
in a playground game, she plucks
geranium, poppy, calibrachoa
bursting in syllables
on her tongue that also shapes “I do”
with every morning, every night
turning toward his back,
laying palm to warming side
like daisies seeking sun.
The name is not the process
that turns the heat from stem to leaf to bloom.
The name is the secret; the name is the reward.
Helper is the Hebrew word
for wife, who was also in a garden
so very much at home.