In a corner plot no more than stones and dirt
we planted one bulb each, and one
marking the fish’s tiny matchbox tomb.

Squatting on the path we jabbed sun-baked soil
with rusty spoons, the day doused
in earth smells and friendship.

She died a child,
grew only in my crooked dreams.
Snowdrops teem to fill the space
that touched our childhood,
their winter heads transfiguring the place.

Joy Winkler