(for Mom and Ashley, with love)

The same Monday afternoon I cruise
plants in a nursery, I walk by a large
heart sculpture on an outside wall,
and think, Nice, about to walk on.

But something stops me, and I
backstep to peer closely, discover
that the heart is composed of dozens
of small, open-winged butterflies,
delicately rendered in rusty metal.

And it comes to me:
Here you are.

Of course, it would be in butterflies,
your favorite, like the one on every
incarnation of your business card,
on brightly colored stakes in
the potted plants on your patio,
the one that’s no longer yours
but now belongs in the good care
of your grandson and his wife.

I often see images of butterflies,
but this one says Mom in a way
that others have not.

I have to buy it, of course, knowing
the spot on my backyard fence
where I will hang this sweet swarm.

As I place it in my car, I feel
my phone vibrate, and what I see
makes me vibrate, too.

Your grandson’s wife has texted
three photos of the purple lilac
blooming its fool head off
in your/her backyard. And
on that bush that I hand watered
through the three too-hot summers
rests a large butterfly, its wings
open to reveal a shade of blue that
you would love—an aqua teal.

I think she saw me taking
pictures of her flowers and
had to check on them, too,
texts your grandson’s wife.
Purple lilac with a blue butterfly.
That’s her in a nutshell.

It so is, I type back blurrily
through damp lashes.

Which is when the voice
of a long-gone beloved friend
of yours and mine rattles through
my head, as she often does:
Honey, there are no accidents.

And I say aloud to no one
and everyone who might
be listening,

I know. I know.
Thankyouthankyouthankyou.