Nearness

Tim
seeks me
in the garden

small
white
butterfly

always
hovering
nearby

Ghost
that I glimpse
from the side of my eye

Darting through blossoms
resting on leaves
taking advantage of sunshine and breeze

Pointing out a shapely cloud
waiting on my mailbox
inquisitive antenna cocked

Reminding me
as mortality
rages on

death
is not
the final stop.

Tim Mann, dear friend and fellow traveler,
you are remembered.