Watering Wilted Flowers & A Nighttime Through a Starlit Sky

Haley Renee is a twenty-nine-year-old contemporary romance author who lives in Ohio with her spunky Tortie cat, Leia. She prides herself on writing stories and poetry that tackle challenging topics and conversations that work to break the stigma as well as showcase where she is from. She is also extremely passionate about her home, the foothills of Appalachia. When she isn't writing, you can find her at Donkey Coffee getting a vanilla chai, at Paycor Stadium cheering on her beloved Cincinnati Bengals, sitting in her office with a guitar in her hands and too many Spotify playlists on her computer, or (weather permitting) outside exploring the incredible state and national parks of our country.

My social media handles are: 

Tiktok - @hdwriting

Instagram - @hdwriting13

Watering Wilted Flowers 

h. renee 

I keep pouring water onto cracked soil as though thirst is the problem. 

The earth swallows each offering, 

yet nothing stirs 

or reaches for the light. 

The silence grows heavier each day, 

like stems bending under their own weight. I whisper apologies into the roots— 

lay them down like rain, 

but they pool without sinking in. 

A surface gloss on decay. 

Once, these blooms opened like laughter with petals wide as sunrise, 

leaning into every bit of warmth we gave them. I remember the fragrance— 

how the air felt thick with promise 

and even the smallest touch was enough to spark growth. 

Now, I flood the soil until it drowns, 

but no color returns— 

only the smell of rot, 

and the crackle of brittle leaves disintegrating between my fingers. 

I realize now, 

it was never thirst that hollowed us, 

but time, 

and the way love soured in our hands while we kept insisting it was alive. 

We mistook habit for devotion, 

watering ritual instead of roots. 

Still, I keep tending. 

I cannot stop. 

Each pitcher I pour is a kind of prayer— not to revive, 

but to remember. 

Some flowers are not meant to last. Some loves dry out no matter the tending. All that remains now is to unclench my hand, and let the petals fall, 

one by one. 

So, I’ll keep watering wilted flowers, not to save them, 

but to honor the garden they once were.

A Nighttime Waltz Through A Starlit Sky 

h. renee 

The smoke from the fire swirls into the stars in plumes rising to meet celestial bodies. Meanwhile, our feet stay firmly planted in Athens County soil. 

We walk beneath constellations 

older than every story passed down to us. 

Your hand rests folded in mine like the curve of the river into the valley. 

Crickets orchestrate their song in the humid air, 

and fireflies scatter golden punctuation in the field’s open margins. The moon spills silver threads across the rolling ridges, 

draping backroads in the soft blanket of nightfall. 

An owl calls from the sycamores bending in the breeze on the banks of the Hocking. 

Each step is a gentle note 

in the Waltz we’ve been dancing all night— 

shoulder brushing shoulder, 

your laughter unfurling like sparks from the campfire, 

and my breath caught in the cadence of your gaze. 

Here, in this space, 

love feels like something older than language— 

etched into the soil, 

written in the sky 

And though dawn will pull us back into the noise and responsibility of day, tonight 

we belong entirely to the stars 

through our nighttime Waltz across a starlit sky.