Resilient Hearts

I am NOT a gardener.
Though a gardener I’ve never tried to be…
Every natural wonder I’ve ever encountered
has been there before me, 
remnants from previous tenants’ tastes
and sculptures wild and free
lovingly planted in my path
by the Creator Almighty
and meant at the time of discovery
to be the personal messages needed. 

And so it is with my hibiscus pinks, 
cut down to the ground by the men
so they could build a fence more easily. 
Flowers dear to me for the way they so faithfully
after such meaningful moments took turns blooming
to mark the milestones in my healing,
to commemorate the special blessings,
to symbolize with such humble beauty
the changing seasons within me. 

In the soft, golden morning rising sun, 
they lift themselves again to greet me. 
Not defiantly. Just filled with inspiration. 
An example. A reunion. A smiling. 
I approach and spend some moments 
I do not have according to clock and duty. 
The buds seem from an extra-long green
hibernation to be defrosting, thawing.  
I know what lies inside. The knowing
denies mystery but does not anticipation-impede.

My heart does indeed too beat again,
my dear friends. 
They can never cut short
our aspiring stories. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Tears and Tears (Triple Haiku)

fresh spring rain on green
salty drops clinging to cheeks
all water cleanses

tears and tears the same
heteronyms for the pain
one dries, one remains

tears and tears post-storm
one can let the light reach through
one can bloom from love

Poems and images ©LauraDenise

More of my haiku and nature photography on Instagram!

Spring Trepidation

Nothing blooms
without first being buried;
seems I’ve spent most of my life
underground waiting,
gripping the darkness,
but denial is shapeshifting,
roots repeatedly rejected
despite the yearning.

This time, maybe…
the maybe the bravest part,
for the doubt is the drought
when the clouds become
quenchingly dark.

Perhaps only faith
in love and the dream
can fertilize the seed,
and only continued belief
keep the sprout growing. 

I suppose that’s why some break
through the earth
while others retain
fear of fruition 
and why we have seasons
to vary the conditions

to inspire the buried,
the dormant, the hibernating,
to take that final leap
whenever they’re ready.

Some burst through
on days with blue skies and
sun’s spotlight on debut petals,
embraced by love, the gardener
waiting with welcome arms,
and the dreams get fulfilled;

others with faith
still laced with trepidation
may emerge under the
protection of the shadows
unsure if their hearts’ desires
will be met in this new world.

It is my time.
Or so I thought.
So sure he’ll be there. 
But what if he’s not. 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Infused With You

Daydreams rise up and become infused
into the golden clouds on their way to

that place unseen but guaranteed
to exist just for the ones who fully believe 

in all the things conceived
from purity, beauty, and truth,

each sunset, kissed and renewed.
I release my heart again for you.

When it arrives,
you will hold it again so tenderly tight,

and when you fall asleep, 
my heart, warm with your love,
will return to comfort me.

A Heart Out of Hibernation


Cryogenically-preserved heart
guarded with blades of ice,
lying low, preferring alone,
but the romantic dreams
so carefully preserved inside.

Not deliberately hiding
and you were not looking,
but the gods in mixing the seasons
led you to find me.


I was faded
in protective hibernation,
but your love 
warmed me like morning sun.

Your heart
brought mine
to life,
blew gently
to spark my inner fire;


the colors
that resided down deep
my desire
with you 

to be me.

img_6063Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Evening Petals

As the sun sets,
and sangria
kisses my lips,
I twirl
white petals
in my fingertips,

manipulating them
into the frame,
and with my dreams,
I do the same,

as if the halo
of the golden light
will bring my
heart’s desires
to life,

and for added measure,
or  perhaps because I
can’t help but linger,
I add a little bit of
mystic moonlight
as if the glow
from both
will last

he arrives.

Mystery to Me


extra sensitive,

picking up mixed signals

of every human emotion,

eyes brim with

unidentified sadness

but do not spill over,

for tears that mix

simultaneously with


get recalled to the cauldron

to start over

in the feelings-concoction,

stirred not by hand

but all that I am,

have been through,

have yet to see,

and the substance

that holds it 

all together

in the center

comes from the faith

I feel

He has

in me. 

I am transforming

into exactly who

I was always

going to 


still a mystery

to me.

Lord, keep making me

an instrument

of Your peace. 


The Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi 

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is error, the truth;
Where there is doubt, the faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

Drops of Time


Sometimes you need
to let go
of both the past and present
to make room for
your future

waiting so patiently
to embrace you
if your heart
and arms
were not so

of nonliving yesterdays
and unfulfilling todays;
though they may haunt
and though they may sustain,

it is only your future
that can bring
what you can’t help but

and deserve.

the future, too,
moves on.
And before you know it,
you’ve achieved

until you’re


Let your future
bring you



Ocean Timeless


Ocean, timeless.

All stages

and walks

of life

equally embraced,


the soul

to seek

and find…

No two



but the sea


so many

similar dreams,

secret pleas


its waves filled

with such murmurs…

Some search

for shells,

some for treasures,

some look

for those bottles

with rolled up


some come

to visit

the spirit of another,

some fill a bucket,

others a locket,

sandy pockets,

camera rolls,

but the greatest


only in the heart

can one hold:

they are the weights

of the mind and body


into the endless blue,

not to simply dump

but with the belief

that the ebb will send for

the solace

saltless solutions

to heal

all wounds,

the magic

of mermaids

to rekindle

dreams from youth…

Ocean, timeless,

welcomes you;

roll up your pants

or submerge yourself

into the

fountain of youth.


Photos of my daughter and my aunt. ❤

Fleeing Land

They even closed the beach during the supposed pandemic.

And with all that has been going on in the world weighing so heavily upon my sensitive heart, those initial barefoot steps upon the boardwalk bridge began immediately changing me inside once again, and I needed it, once again.

The bridge between the world and the sea. I exhaled a deep breath as the peace so sincerely greeted me and welcomed me back, my back to the parking lot and town, the sweeping vastness of the water horizon coming into full view, the sound of the crashing waves becoming stronger. In that moment, before my toes even fully hit the deep, silky, white sand, I already have sent all of that weight in me ahead, to take off with the sea birds, wings spread wide and filling with the salty wind. My vision becomes blurred as the sea-mist gathers on my glasses. My mind forgets all that was swirling around in it just a moment ago. It is magical, this bridge to the sea, the bridge between the weight of the world and a mind afloat upon the water. It is both a selfish and selfless escape. To drown out all of the fighting voices on land, to become deaf to all but the sounds of the waves. I haven’t even reached the sand…

The sand is a soothing temperature with the sun having already set. The rare white blends into the soft, muted colors of twilight and the sea itself, the division smudged and discreet; I am glad for that, for division is what I am fleeing for a while. I am not in the mood for even loud colors.

With the tropical storm having just passed, the ebb and flow is dramatic, leaving much of the sand a firm, wet, smooth, freshly-wiped slate. A clean slate. No footsteps. No sign of human existences in that sand just before the sea, as if it is required to leave everything behind in order to receive the sea. I gladly do so. Despite the double-red flag, I walk directly into the perfect-temperature water (but not beyond knee-deep to be safe).

The tide is oddly gentle for an ebb of such receding. The waves are less powerful in force than they are powerfully moving; they seem simply extra willing to take from me whatever I need to offer, for me, in a benevolent service, not for the sea in some kind of dues to be paid. The sea seems to be acting as a first-responder, eager to do its part, to treat and heal every heart that comes with that need. It seems to know of the chaos on land, and I can’t help but see the irony. To be lost at land and seek the stability of the sea.

The sea brings stability and balance back to me.

Images by me, taken yesterday, unfiltered, unedited. Video posted on my IG.