These all started out to be rose hips.
The red ones still are.
When you’ve spent the money, have got the MFA, have melted the VISA, are just so done with workshopping, can no longer say the word “publisher” without edging into a rant and don’t get you started on editors, eh, have run out of energy, have hit the wall, are exhausted by poetry contests that cost $20 a pop, feel like civilization’s Best Before Date is actually a Long Before Date, when all else fails, plant a seed and walk away for a few months. Then approach your mind from a different road, with a long angle lens and see what has been growing in your absence. Look at that! Two SF novels almost ready to go! No contest.
P.K. Page told me once, “No one ever wrote a poem by working hard.”