My mother grew butterflies.

She had an old garden bed by the front door,

in which she grew milkweed.

She had eight children.

In a miracle of wings, monarchs –

yearly migrate from Central Mexico to Canada, and then make the trip back.

It takes five generations to make that trip.

They only lay eggs on milkweed.

She had eight children.

My mother knew about migrations.

She knew how children come and go,

Come and go.

She knew they needed a safe place.

The right home.

She knew about watching children launch into uncertain winds and futures.

Two of my nieces –

The third generation, spent time growing up in that house.

I like to think they needed milkweed like milk to grow.

Yesterday a wounded monarch lay in my yard.

I showed my granddaughter how to pick it up.

We carried it down the street to a neighbor’s patch of milkweed.

So if it still needed to lay eggs,

to carry on the next generation,

it could.

This was the fourth generation of children

Helping the fourth generation of monarchs.

My mother grew monarchs

And she knew how to grow families.

© words and pictures by Daniel DeMarle