Sun-bleached and fluttering,
a butterfly weaves around us.
“I wonder who that is?”
The sun bursts from Grandmother’s face.

By summer she had passed.
Everything was yellow, golden,
like pages from old hymnals.
Hazy sunlight passes through stained glass
and lands there on her face.
“Why are you crying? She’s right here.”

Cross-legged in the shade
of a spiraling cypress tree,
I say hello again.
Sunbeams pierce through
leaves and reflect off her
iridescent wings
and I know she’s at peace here in my palm.

The brevity of a butterfly.
The perfect vessel
for a wandering spirit.