The Beltway

This year of political upheaval underscores the many different views held by Americans. Some of them so diametrically opposed as to inspire violence.  Daily, the media brings these disagreements to our attention, fuels the fire of dissent. Reasonableness suddenly passe. Hot rhetoric the latest buzz.

I enjoy the luxury of living ten stories up with incredible views outside my windows. Thickly treed neighborhoods to the west, city street scenes on the east. One evening I realized this vantage point demonstrated the gestalt of politics.



The Beltway


Come nighttime
a river of crimson and cream
split by a sorcerer to stream side-by-side

Above
luminescence crowns
the brows of buildings unworthy

Below
streets set in black-wash
flare like jewels fallen

Steady lines of light pulsing stop-and -go

Which flows forward?
                          Which ebbs back?

Different perspective, same milieu
driven/riven by their views

Neither, both



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Falling Barometer

It's the season of thunderstorms and tornadoes. Having grown up on the plains and threatened by these weather patterns every summer, I empathize with those caught in the destructive path of any storm. And annually rejoice that I have moved farther away from the heart of tornado alley, albeit still on the northern fringe.

Thankfully, rainstorms predominate and not cyclones throughout the targeted states, despite what you might see on the news. But rain clouds can harbor lightening, dangerous in its own right, along with the menacing sound of thunder. And I had an aunt terrified by them, especially in the black of night.



Falling Barometer


Farmland Dakota flat
and wide to the weather.

My uncle concerned only
if the sky turned sickly with hail

but my aunt skittish
as a horse during summer storms.

Dark prairie midnights
roused with lightening strikes

yawned us into the front room
to pray for deliverance.  Every tempest

we mumbled the rosary by rote.
Come fall and football I pictured

lucky game-day jerseys spun from prayers
like those: talismans both

frequently charmed but sometimes crushed
by thundering forces.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fairy Tale Adjusted

A long weekend at the cabin sans internet connection. A welcome reprieve from the world at large. Each spring we try to time our May trip north to coincide with seeing our crabapple tree in all its rose-infused glory, surrounded by the green of the forest. In the last ten years we have only managed this once. Many a time we have come close but something always seems to trip us up. A work schedule. A long, chilly spring. Obligations here in the Cities. A warmer than normal winter. For whatever reason, the tree's springtime beauty eludes us on a regular basis.

This year, sad to say, followed the same pattern. The buds were set but not yet plump enough to even consider opening. We missed the blossoms by a good week to ten days. Meanwhile, I console myself with those trees and bushes here at home filled with all the pinks and purples and whites that grace too brief a period each May.



Fairy Tale Adjusted


There is a crabapple tree
on my block easily missed
in passing.  Her stepsisters
overshadow her with willowy
grace but a Fairy Godmother
blesses her each spring.

For two days the shy tree
dresses in fragrant, pink
blossoms, a regal princess
come out of hiding, dazzling
all who see her.  A short lived glory
while others tarry longer at the ball.

Unlike Cinderella she has no
glass slipper but her liverymen,
the bees, act as go-betweens.
And the prince knows
where to find her.


 Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion

Mother's Day today and, of course, my thoughts drift to Mom. Born and raised in Switzerland she emigrated to America as an adolescent. When I think of her life, apart from her husband and children, two things made her the most proud: her Swiss heritage and her reputation as a fabulous cook. Among her hobbies she loved collecting cookbooks and recipes of any kind. Enough to fill shelves and sacks, boxes and cartons of them.

At the same time she was both intuitive and inventive with her cooking/baking skills. These additions or subtractions, for the most part, improved whatever she prepared. But sometimes she became a tad too generous in altering a recipe. Here's to you, Mom.



My Mother the Cook or How I Learned about Spontaneous Combustion


Ten minutes into bake time
a faint smell of smoke and telltale
tendrils drifted from the oven door.
A peak inside revealed pure blue
flames wafting over a brandy laced
pound cake. In a mini-whirlwind
she whipped open the window
and fanned the frantic alarm.
Her dessert black as bituminous,
a lush apricot liqueur wasted, guests
due to arrive shortly, and a dumbstruck
child present when she least needed it.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Magic Carpets

Spring has always been my favorite season. The reasons are legion: longer days and abundant sunshine, the earth returning to life, countless shades of green, fruit trees dressed in stunning blossoms of pinks and reds and whites, lilac bushes heavy with perfume and purple, even the perky/pesky dandelions scattered across playing fields loud with sporting exuberance.

Then there is this year. Recurrent leaden skies and almost daily rains have been the recent norm, and they do nothing to promote the joie de vivre usually found in abundance come April and May. On the other hand, the forecast calls for sunny days ahead and a jacket-free week, starting today. Something I must take on faith given the disappointing cloud cover from horizon to horizon present this morning. But what is spring, if not a time of hope?



Magic Carpets


The elusive rug maker
is showcasing
his wares this week:

cherry blossoms
grounded after April's party,
a Persian covering

apple tree petals
fallen like a picnic blanket,
steadied by morning's dew

and if you're early enough

a saffron runner of seeds thrown
over cars parked street-side,
edges sunning the cement.

I blink and they take to the sky.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor