The garden goddess next door,
as part of her daily practice, stands
hose in hand, kindly watering

the corner bed by my driveway—
the creeping little daisies, the last
of the poppies, new cone flowers,

the to-be Black-eyed Susans
(still all leaves for the moment)—
chatting with me as our eyes

flutter upward, drawn to a large
monarch swooping, seemingly,
around us, gaily pirouetting,

alighting momentarily on the ginkgo,
perhaps looking for a drink.
The ticker tape in my brain

flashes—Mom!—along with
the sense of someone else hopping
up and down, hand raised

like a kid in class—me, too!
I say to the garden goddess,
“I wonder if that’s my mother.

She loved butterflies.”
I grin at my mystical neighbor.
“And maybe your mother, too.”

“You think so?” she says,
hope rising in her voice.
“Do you hear her? See her?”

“It’s more of a knowing,” I say
as the butterfly—who certainly
feels like a she—lingers within

our sight, even a bit later when
I walk across the street to my car.
She soars into the sycamores

of the house next door where
Becky lived, my favorite neighbor,
whose garden goddess daughter

has continued the family tradition
of daily hand watering in summer,
growing a lush forest of ferns

and greenery, which I can’t help
but think must delight both
of our mothers flittin’ in

for a quick hello from their
spot in the forever on this
sparkling summer afternoon.