The Problem with Bananas

I have long complained about "fresh" fruits and vegetables found in grocery stores with the onset of shortened days and frigid weather. Most of the produce trucked or flown a thousand miles and more to local stores. Strawberries come to mind, grapes, green beans, tomatoes, too. The list gets long.

Winter drags its feet at this time of year, making it difficult to visualize farmer's markets emerging on concrete still suffused with February cold. Meanwhile, I will have to rely on the consistency of bananas. With a caveat.


The Problem with Bananas


No matter how fresh
or firm they feel
as soon as I turn my back
brown spots pop up
on the sunny yellow fruit.

Before you know it
the guilty decision
not to bake banana bread
once again
dooms an entire bunch.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Out for a Walk

A water pipe broke in the ceiling of the condo's gym, causing major damage to many of the machines, and a month long closure of the facility. An inconvenience in the middle of February when indoor treadmills are more appealing than a hike in the elements. But I have convinced myself that a windchill above zero remains acceptable to brave a walk as long as I'm wearing the right clothes.

A lesson learned years ago when I moved to Minnesota for my Pediatric Residency. Early on, one of the docs informed us there were only two reasons to be cold in winter. "Either a person is too poor to dress correctly or they are too dumb." Then he looked at us pointedly and said, "I know none of you are penniless." With that he effectively dismissed our complaints about the morning's glacial weather. More temperate conditions can be found in the poem below.


Out for a Walk


I turn north and neglect the known.

Stumble upon a neighborhood
of tear-downs and rebuilds:
Gullivers on Lilliputian lots
shoulder to shoulder, brooding
over holdouts stubborn as native grasses.

On the street thirty-somethings
jog to a pace pulsed by earbuds;
afghans and labradoodles
fresh from obedience school, trotting in sync.

I picture my dog, if I owned one,
bounding as a springer, curly as a terrier,
schnoz like a hound's,
dragging me to Instant Messages at tree bases,
sleuthing the scents of entitlement,
straining to stay while I attempt to double back

and search for the lone road out.


Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Squatters

Just returned from a weekend up North. The thermometer registered -16 degrees yesterday morning, and during the night the bedroom's baseboard heating conked out. Snuggling becomes imperative in situations like that even with heat in the rest of the cabin.

Out on the lake hardy souls went ice-fishing all day.  Not for me, thank you, nor the snowmobiles. Who knows how low the windchill when flying on one of them. A warm fire and steaming cup of coffee, books and writing material held me captive and content. And now I'm back in the city, looking forward to next month's trip without the teeth chattering cold.


Squatters

On the unsullied banner of winter's lake
two forms hunker down: vagrants?
No, not human but animal.

Bodies rounded like rolled bales of hay
and dark as mama bear's fur.
Too small for Big Foot progeny.

Diminutive, milk-jug heads
tucked against the wind.  Aberrant wolves?

Before I can raise my eye-piece
they unfold, shape-shift:
a duo of bald eagles free-riding an updraft.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

On Loan

It pains me to show my ignorance but sometimes it's unavoidable. All along I assumed that both my musings and my poetry would stay in cyberspace in perpetuity. This week I realized my error. Hence, the change in format.

We finally received a typical Minnesota snowfall a few days back. Seven to twelve inches depending on where you were in the metro area. The kind of snow that quiets everything, slows people down, leaves a breathtaking landscape. Too soon the swath of white is sullied by snowplows and shovels and everyday life. If we're lucky, the magic lasts a few hours, sometimes overnight.


On Loan


Snowfall
satin-glossed, pristine gesso
overlays town and drive alike

My footprints
reveal the rube trashing a Rauschenberg
left at the doorstep



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor