Rejection Garden Tree/Story 1SNAP OF ORANGE, CRACKLE OF YELLOW

     As I mentioned earlier...each post, each story/tree will be randomly picked. There is no order to the design, no method to this madness. 

    The Rejection Garden is less about rejection and more about creativity, persistence, and joy. Over the next month, I am going to share one Tree/Manuscript with you, not in its entirety, instead, I’ll post a synopsis, how many times it has been rejected and then, I’ll finish with my favorite line and include a picture of the tree and name tag.  

"You have to be prepared that some opportunities will work out and others won't, and that's ok.  You can't win everywhere. The more opportunities you get, the more rejections you will receive. That's simply a numbers game." -Jen Alvares

Tree/Story 1

One Rejection, One submission, Word Count 200

        This one started off as a poem, that turned into a submission for #FALLWritingFrenzy 

of 2021 using this photo as a prompt.

    Typically "Laura Lyrical", writing the poem filled me with great joy recounting an evening walk with my daughter. Ironically, I have chosen a springtime bloom as a placeholder for the manuscript in my Rejection Garden. 

    Kerria Japonica, commonly known as Japanese kerria or Japanese rose, is a deciduous, yellow-flowering shrub in the rose family, native to China, Japan, and Korea. It is the only species in the genus Kerria. In the wild, it grows in thickets on mountain slopes. Japanese kerria has been used for medicine and is also planted in gardens. 

    I simply call this plant my Little PomPoms of Joy, for obvious reasons.

And for the Synopsis? I lied. Since this one started as a poem, I will post the whole poem. It truly, continually fills me with joy. And, looking out, seeing my plant grow and grow, currently blooming, gives me hope for my continued publishing trudge.

                                        SNAP OF ORANGE, CRACKLE OF YELLOW

                                                            By Laura N. Clement 2021

In summer she likes her toes to wiggle in grass and mud,

over pebbles submerged and slimy that tickle,

Squoosh and,

Sloosh,

against her bare skin—

warm,

browned,

but prickled,

until,

without apology the season,

 

            crashes—rolling waves of frantic froth and foam delightfully against us.

 

Drenched,

beaming,

and joyous, her still smaller hand woven in mine,

 

warms us as evening miles unfold our steps into the watercolor of the sunset.

 

The bite of the evening blushed our cheeks.

Our toes safely tucked in are muffled, 

snuggled, 

and cozy warm in heavy our boots,

but our eyes blinking back the bite of autumn search to devour the musty snap of orange,

and savor the fragile crackle of yellow—freshly fallen underfoot.

 

 

            Her whole face —

Beams bright and blissful beneath the fuzzy fold of her hat, 

she is awash in the imagination of—

            this season where petrichor surrounds soft and sweet then swells…

 

…into rain.

 

            She,

Impulsive—skips and twirls,

and pulls away to waltz in a wander folded into the mist, alone.

 

 

            Each night her fingers, 

            dancing in exploration, 

            land on the up and down and varied loops and lulls of fences,

            where bends and knots in wood momentarily pause the cadence of our feet.

 

But it’s the jewels of uneven, 

red edges that crumble when touched, 

that distract the most.  

Eventually, 

soaked, 

slightly frozen, 

little fingers search once more to weave into the warmth of mine.

 

 

            There is magic here, 

            deep in the wood, 

            in the fading light—ours to share.