A butterfly haunts me,
Oft more frequently than not,
Flit and flickering about,
Quite boldly lighting on my sun soaked shoulder,
As if whispering in my ear . . .
Lovingly unafraid as I work in my garden and such.
She seems to know when I need her most,
And out of nowhere,
Fills my being once more
Mom, “I’m here,
And I miss you dearly.”