The daffodils brought you from the house,

along the path,

to the forgotten border beneath the crab apple

that winter’s winds had failed to fell.

There among the snow drops,

yellow faces head-bopped to the breeze

as it brushed through them like fingers,

like your fingers,

nails chewed short and jagged,

but hands so small, so soft

and always twisted up in something.

Always half cupped,

as if to hold onto something,

something among those daffodils,

out in the garden,

when Spring was still just a hope.

Just a hope.