A butterfly flew in the door, I knew it was my mum.
A visit dancing through, with lots of love and fun.
It’s good to see her flying now, no longer in her chair.
I’m happy that she’s healthy, since stepping over there.
Sometimes she’s a feather, so very light and bright.
She floats on air and drops on me, not a bird in sight.
It’s usually to tell me, that I’m heading the right way.
It’s how she keeps in contact, since she went away.
In winter she’s a robin, with breast of brightest red.
She sits upon the woodpile, sings while I’m in bed.
She’ll always come to see me, I know that to be true.
Until one day, I step behind, that same doorway too.