To the Lady Who Put Roses Out


Single Red Rose

It was a quiet day on a quiet street.

It seems like it was one of those family holidays;

Maybe Father’s Day or Mother’s Day… I don’t recall.

It was a good day for a walk.


We took our time, talking along the way.

We were not walking for distance or speed.

The old sidewalk was cracked and uneven…

Sort of the way life is.


We watched our step. You remember that

old saying about stepping on a crack?

There was a nice breeze off the river.

Birds were rejoicing in the trees.


We heard the wind in the big trees in

the old cemetery. It was well kept.

People cared about cemeteries here.

So do the squirrels…policing the rows.


One block. Two blocks. Three…four.

The houses were perched high on each side

with sloping yards and low stone walls.

Middle-aged houses – nothing grand.


There ahead, on a low cobbled wall,

sat a small painted bucket of cut red roses.

“Please take one” the penciled sign said.

She took one. “How nice” I said.


We continued another few blocks…

Stopped for coffee and then doubled back.

The roses were still there but fewer, now.

Other walkers must have read the sign.


Like a pebble in a pond, this

simple act of sharing rippled through

the lives of people she never met

but cared about from a distance.


From Writer’s Cramp — a remembrance of a walk up West Main



About klh048

Retired and a part-time writer/blogger with lots of interests...
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