• Molly Dugan

A single yellow rose

It was a peculiar place

to leave

a single yellow rose.

On a stone bridge,

built over a small valley,

in the middle of a hiking trail.

The trail was a part

of an old estate

that was always well kept.

The yellow stood out

against the gray stones

and the brown bark of the trees.


I never saw the rose bush,

but I suppose

it wasn’t too far away.

As I sat on a bench

set across from

where the flower was,

I grew curious

about how it got there.

Maybe it was given

from one person to another,

as a statement of their friendship.

Or maybe it was picked

by an earlier hiker,

because the color made them smile.

Before I continued on the path

I thought about taking it,

but for how out of place it seemed

it did not belong anywhere else.

It was meant to be there,

just as I was meant to see it.


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