In the quiet cathedral of the rose garden, we learn the language of tending. It is a slow conversation, whispered in the rustle of leaves, the sigh of thirsty earth. We bend low, not in servitude, but in a practice of humble attentiveness. The fragile bud, the thirsty bloom - each speaks a dialect of need. Tending is not conquest, but a choreography of respect. We prune, we water, we offer a hand to wayward stems, all the while aware of the unseen dance - the patient sun, the industrious bee. Tending asks us to step into the rhythm of the living world, where care becomes a form of listening, and growth, a shared endeavour.
Ode to Tending