January 1st, Any Year

Happy New Year, Everyone! I feel as if New Year resolutions have almost become passe. And if we do make some, how many of us really follow through when it's so much easier to moan about problems than tackle them? We can change that.



January 1st, Any Year


A day of reckoning, a time
for resolutions, another chance
to challenge troublesome headaches:

put down the smart phone, clean up
your corner of the earth, use less,
lose the extra cookie, take a walk,
be open to all.

Or stick with the usual aspirin,
and don't call me in the morning.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Buying a Xmas Tree at a Big Box Store

Happy Holidays, Everyone!



Buying a Xmas Tree at a Big Box Store


Part indoors, part out, part slippery floor,
part nursery, part bling, part hardware store.
Rows of frosty firs stood stiff with cold,
stacks of Christmas wreaths lay trimmed in gold.
Inflatable Santa rocked in the breeze,
and seasonal workers tried not to freeze.

The air changed when a wide-eyed child appeared
and turned flagging smiles to holiday cheer.
Suddenly, a not-so-perfect tree
revealed possibilities to me.
The boy cast a spell over all we saw,
gifting me a needed sense of awe.

Magic blooms in the strangest of places,
sometimes even in big box spaces.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Solstice in the City

We are in the middle of a December warm streak. Towns to the north of us set records for high temps yesterday, and whatever snow that has fallen here will soon be gone. Winter solstice, waiting at the end of this week, holds no sting this year.



Solstice in the City


Winter's opening night buried in a flurry
of holidays. The stage readied
for a story pitting gloom and Borealis

against a weakened Sol
and his struggling bands of luminance.
The shopworn play dusted-off annually

despite the certainty of mixed reviews
and an empty Presidential Box.
But there exist those of us

who gather this drama into our bones,
know the dialogue of each par-sec of light,
hold tight to Tolstoy, Chekov

and winter's untouched script,
drink Rachmaninov and Liszt.
But rewrites cut short the soliloquy

of spiteful cold, shave lines from arctic ice.
And audiences acquainted with the story
protest the relentless revisions.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Billingsgate - 4:00AM

Andrew and I have a favorite place for gathering with our friends simply because Wednesday oysters on the half-shell are $1.00 apiece. You can find us there late afternoons maybe once a month with Andrew happily devouring two dozen of the mollusks. We both agree that weekly forays would be overkill, and the specialness would wear thin.



Billingsgate - 4:00AM


A roll of the dice riding on the whims
of appetites. Shop owners and chefs
walk the morning market.

A warehouse of fresh fish and seafood
heaped high beneath lights brighter
than the London sun struggling to rise.

Sea bream, cod, or the catch of the day?

Like players betting on stocks
customers invest in oysters and shrimp,
assume risk on snapper and skate.

Fast talking vendors
in wellies and aprons control cash flow.

Profit in the buyer's pocket, too,
if wagered right. If not, today's sole
surfaces in a bouillabaisse tomorrow.

Perhaps, that's why Jenny,
years behind the counter, eats only meat.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

On Growing Older

Someone close to me celebrated a 50th birthday this week, but it seems only yesterday that she was born. Where does the time go? The lament of all of us lucky enough to ponder life from a far shore even as we begrudge our own aging.



On Growing Older


A pebble
picked up while strolling
through life. Roll it
across your fingers.

Turn it, touch it.
Feel sandpaper surfaces
and smooth contours,
surprise angles, quirky edges.

Toss it, reject it
only to one day discover it
back inside your shoe.
Stuck.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Late/Harvest

Yes, another a late blog - 'tis the season. Within the last week I read that farm bankruptcies are on the rise in the upper midwest once again. When I drive the long stretches of open farmland across southern Minnesota I have lots of opportunity to speculate about many things. Forlorn looking farmsteads being one of them.



Late/Harvest


Molten clouds filter a metallic sun
above cornstalks stripped by a combine
bumping up against Thanksgiving.
A sprint to bring in crops rain delayed.

The farmhouse sighs beside a grove
of hardwoods, bony fingers pointing.
Overdue notices
weight the kitchen counter.

Outside a tree-swing ebbs
and flows on prairie winds in this rush
to reap payments.  Snow threatens.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Vespers

I miss two things that comprised a big part of my life: our cabin retreat and, yes, my ER work. Simply put, they balanced each other.

Someday, we hope to reestablish a cabin life. And if anyone can create an ER without stress, rotating shifts, and weekends, I'm your person.



Vespers


A ten-year-old girl covered with hives

                    Miles into midnight countryside

Wheezing hard, unable to speak
Blood pressure levels slipping fast

                    Winter solstice weather
                     Crystalline and cold

In the ER a dance of rescue unfolds
Drugs slam home, infuse, relax

                    The wrap of blackness broken
                    Beneath a billion star sky

Breathing slower, a faint smile: good signs

                     Looking up, we feel almost divine.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Art of Communication

I am off-schedule this week due to travels. Nothing nearly as befuddling as a trip to Scotland last spring but, rather, a journey comfortable as an old sweater to spend time with a son and his family.

The Art of Communication

On a train to Glasgow

a porter pushed a cart containing

food and drink, offering selections

in an accent so thick

I understood but a single "Awrite,

Darlin'" before his words jumbled

my ears.

Before an affable citizen directed me

to a street he called "Sucky Hall"

in that hilly, chilly, windy city.

Before Google Maps failed me,

and the sign labeled Sauchiehall

made sense two rainy blocks

and an inverted umbrella later.

Before I ordered haggis unaware

of its makeup: sheep's "pluck"

- heart, liver, and lungs -

at the waiter's suggestion

for a savory starter,

and served with a trace of a smile.

Before a taxi driver baffled me

with "Hou's it gaun?"

Before I discovered a lingua franca

spoken in those Lowlands:

"A glass of scotch, please."

Before a briefly raised eyebrow

hinted at an order

a bit more than an expected "wee dram."

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Cantata

This has been a fall of overcast skies, obnoxious ads by political candidates, and ever shortening days. But one gloomy morning an unexpected delight reached my ears.



Cantata


I swear it's a robin I hear singing
outside my November window
though his mates skipped town long ago.

What prompts this outpouring of cheer
in a dull autumn dominated
by damp chills and rain, political ads
and pipe bombs?

Did a buffeting wind skew his course,
and does he sing for courage?
Or is he warning of another storm
on the horizon?

Perhaps it's an unwavering belief
in bluebonnet skies
obscured by this month of misgivings.

No matter the motive
his solo a gift, a lift of the heart
in these divisive times.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fall Cleaning

The wind woke me during the middle of the night, and continues to howl this morning. The hardwoods have been subjected to a shakedown, but any thoughts of raking will have to wait.



Fall Cleaning


The wind cleaned house last night and stripped the trees
Of defiant leaves snubbing autumn's bite.
The tenor's changed, gone is the gentle breeze.

Buffeting bass and concertina wheeze
Found the pitch and played the rafters right.
The wind cleaned house last night and stripped the trees.

Scrubbed them, rubbed them with rain ready to freeze.
Scoured the streets, polished them bright.
The tenor's changed, gone is the gentle breeze

Of Indian summer along with the melodies
Of robins and warblers singing daylight.
The wind cleaned house last night and stripped the trees.

Forced the move of reluctant chick-a-dees,
Tore down makeshift nests in a fit of spite.
The tenor's changed, gone is the gentle breeze.

Arctic blasts blew in with icicle keys,
Unlocked the box holding winter's birthright.
The wind cleaned house last night and stripped the trees,
The tenor's changed, gone is the gentle breeze.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Necessary Groundwork to Weather Prairie Driven Blizzards

I am one of the younger members of a book club about to celebrate its 20th anniversary. It has been a joy not only listening to multiple takes on a wide range of literature, but also getting to know every one of the ladies.

Unfortunately, the rate of attrition has been steadily increasing, but the group that remains is as lively as ever.



Necessary Groundwork
to Weather Prairie Driven Blizzards


Autumn and a stand of oaks,
summer's grande dames fading.

The visible hint a new henna rinse
in their foliage.

These trees sense the need
to conserve crucial sap, tolerate

weakened branches, and ignore
the growing hollows in their core

like time undermining
the matriarchs of my book club.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Channeling Weather

I miss our weekends at the cabin especially in autumn when the colors of the maples and birch and oaks turn vibrant. I even miss north wood nights that dip below freezing, carrying the promise of an early snow.

For now the entire acreage, including the cabin, remains under water. And it has shifted into a long game of wait and see.



Channeling Weather


At the cabin no TV, no internet to batter my brain with highs and lows or isobar maps. Instead, I gather Northern Lights beneath the Big Dipper, wait for weeping skies to wash my hair, play kickball with the wind, knit October sunshine into December mittens, jumprope with willows, and filter fog through my fingers while you consult an iPhone app to tell my vanishing back "It's sleeting!" as slush pings against the panes, and me already outside, sampling snow cones on the fly.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

WWI: Switzerland

A century ago WWI in its last days continued to make itself felt even in European countries not caught up in the conflict.

My mother often reminisced about her childhood in Switzerland in those years of going without, and her father already in America waiting for their arrival delayed by the war.



WWI: Switzerland


Next door
the Marne and the Somme.
I was like the Princess
with her nonsense pea,
bemoaning a lack of oranges
and pebble knots in stockings
darned instead of discarded.

Empty shelf years
broken once with a celebration:
Oma and Opa's 50th anniversary.
I imagined our offering to be gold,
jewelry for her, cufflinks for him.
But all my pleas for a grand gift
only brought head shaking.

Cheeks burning,
prodded by my mother
I handed them our beribboned box,
confused when they proclaimed it
their favorite present of all:
a half-kilo of coffee beans
trailing earthy aromas.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Intern's Lament

Last night I attended a farewell party for a colleague of mine now headed south to a new job in New Orleans. I couldn't help but recall the very beginning of my own career as a bright-eyed doc ready to take on the world.

Little did any of us know what awaited that first year on the pediatric wards with no defenses against even common viruses that kids harbor. By the second year our force shields were almost impervious.



Intern's Lament


How many sneezes in the face
does it take to take down
a pediatrician in training?

How many doorknobs harbor
dastardly pink-eye, waiting to pounce
like a villain from an action cartoon?

How many tummy upsets
turn the tables on newly minted docs
causing them to bolt from the room?

How long 'til the mucous man
rooms with a resident,
unpacks a sack of sniffles and snot?

How many hours turn into a staycation
on the couch, fighting a fever,
sleeping through precious time off?

How many kid diseases rule
before antibodies activate superpowers,
and this rite of passage passes?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Limited Visibility

The I-90 corridor along southern Minnesota stretches across open prairie. Easy to drive on nice days, and a bugaboo during bad weather of any kind. Heavy rain dogged me this trip but thick fog has haunted me on more than one occasion.



Limited Visibility


Wind turbines, pale giants swallowed
by ghost clouds, spin layered vapor
floating over the plains.

Warning signs and raised crossbars
prepared to halt highway traffic
loom and recede like prairie phantoms.

Drifting snow and blizzards trigger
extended arms/alarms, but diaphanous fog,
famous for pileups, holds no leverage.

                            *

Uninvited passengers,
a throbbing headache and white knuckles,
slide in for the ride.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Riff

It's mid-September and the noisy cicadas have gone but the crickets continue to natter. It's mid-September and still the heat of extended summer makes for sweltering nights. It's mid-September but it feels like the dog days persist, heat advisories and all.



Summertime Riff


The jazz of crickets
lulls me to sleep on sticky
August nights. Like the steady
thrum of a Bourbon Street beat
it floats through my wide-flung window
long past "Last call."

When the sultry sun rises
I wake to these jam sessions
finally winding down
as one by one the players pack it in,
amused by the ants already hustling
at first light.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Uncle Ben

My father came from a farming family, and I remember summers spent in the country with two uncles and an aunt, siblings all, still working the land. Of the three of them, Ben left the biggest impression.



Uncle Ben


A wide-mouthed jar brimful
with change, and sitting out
in the open on his dresser
proved to me at age eight
what a wealthy man he must be.
I paid scant notice to his worn
overalls and the back-firing tractor.

He taught me my first salty words,
how to milk a cow without getting kicked,
that Kool-Aid without sugar was only
colored well-water and just as bitter,
exactly the way he liked it.

I acted as his co-pilot when we drove
to town. He surveyed the crops
while I watched the road, gravel pinging
all the way to O'Toole's Bar. A beer
and a bump for him and without asking
always a mouth puckering Squirt for me.

He cursed the noon market reports,
swatting at the airwaves with his thick,
calloused hand, thought it a joke
to toss my straw hat into the hay baler,
and bluffed strangers with his gruffness.

More grizzly than teddy bear, he once
let me hide in his arms during a hailstorm,
and I think I saw him smile.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Linguistics in a Nutshell

It's been a few years since my grandson gathered medieval looking conkers, but I clearly remember their prickly appearance. Last I checked, no chestnut trees menace our neighborhood. It's only the black walnuts we contend with.



Linguistics in a Nutshell


My grandson collected conkers
fallen from a chestnut tree
on a leafy street in London.
And I puzzled over the odd,
British moniker for this glossy nut
bundled in a spiky shell
until acorns, elfin in comparison,
pelted my head from an oak
found at home three months
and a turn of the globe later.

At least the black walnut held its fire.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Summertime Arrangement

For years a pot of flowers annually graced my entry. A simple affair of colorful geraniums and some greenery, enough to brighten the stoop.

I miss them, and each spring revisit the idea of flowers on the balcony of our 10th floor condo. It's usually the wind that squelches these schemes.



Summertime Arrangement


A pot of plants watches
from my front stoop,
red and white geraniums
cheerfully waving at passers-by.

They are a happy bunch,
this hardy crew thrown
together for a summer,
root bound for the season.

And now in August
I notice just how close
they have grown: a bloom
of pink peeks from the foliage.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

To Be Blessed

I've returned from a trip to Europe that included the wedding of Andrew's nephew in northern Italy. The bride and groom requested me to write a poem to be read during the ceremony, and that offering is this week's entry.



To Be Blessed
             for Adam and Valeria


To be blessed said the poet
is to pledge one's love
on the verdant shores of Lake Como.

To be blessed said the water
is to ripple with sun-crested waves,
and adapt when they darken.

To be blessed said the foothills
is to flourish under soft, summer skies,
and weather winter winds.

To be blessed said the Alps
is to provide plateaus for lupine,
and allow for valleys of snow.

To be blessed said the sky
is to dust the heavens with magic,
and remain constant behind the tempest.

To be blessed said the parents
is to wake up together, smiling,
even as rain beats against the window.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Promised Meteor Shower

Many years ago I witnessed a spectacular meteor shower, and have been in search of a similar experience ever since. The conditions need to be just right: late night or predawn, no clouds, and no ambient light.

I thought I had nailed it last summer at the cabin. But the timing of predawn darkness in the northland differs from that farther south.

As an aside, I will be traveling the first two weeks of August, so my blog will contain no new entries until the middle of the month.



Promised Meteor Shower


The best seat dockside:
an hour before sunrise or so it's written
         by someone in southern latitudes.

My laughing alarm pushed me
           into the far north predawn, lucent enough
                            to mask the faintest of fireballs.

Steam drifted off the water;
             the mirrored lake beckoned me to stay
                            but, bent on a firecracker sky,

I sulked away.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Medical School in Mid-Life

I recently received an invitation to attend the 30th reunion of my graduation from medical school. If I had done it in the usual time frame, it would be closer to a 45 year celebration.

True to form, I chose the hard way: in my 30s and with a half-grown family. It proved to be a very intense four years.



Medical School in Mid-Life


Master the facts crowding your head.
Fold the laundry, humor your spouse,
But never leave a page of text unread.

Groceries to buy, exams to dread,
And a waste of breath to grouse.
Simply master the facts storming your head.

Vacuum the floors, make the bed,
Find time for a movie, dropkick the doubts,
And nevermore leave biochem unread

But no casual scanning. Instead
When handed a memory aid - pounce!
Master the facts leaking from your head.

Chauffeur the kids, keep everyone fed,
And do not forget to iron your blouse
Nor leave a single assignment unread.

Family time dwindling, wrested
By med school, that blasted powerhouse.
Just master the facts crammed in your head,
And don't leave "Saving a Marriage" unread.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Seventh Heaven

I wrote this poem a year ago. It speaks for itself and all the wonders of a nighttime sky in the north woods.



Seventh Heaven


In wildwood clearings I linger
on the dock of midnight,
circle under the marvel of stars.
The summer sky shifts

the view I witness in winter
when Ursa Major rides low
but tonight somersaults higher
in the heavens of July.

And from his father's arms
Ursa Minor, tossed upwards
like a laughing child,
dangles the North Star on a string.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tempest

The abundance of trees and lakes here in the Cities provides habitat for a wide diversity of birds. I watch herons fly between ponds and wooded areas on a daily basis, listen to any number of warblers early mornings, and, just yesterday, stood beneath an osprey gliding on thermals high above the street.

When I wrote this poem I was keeping track of a blue heron nesting on our lake in Wisconsin, but the sentiment applies equally well here.



Tempest


Where does the heron hide
when rain slashes the lake
and lightening fissures the sky?

Does she dash inside, secure
the windows, check the door, fiddle
with a flashlight, watch it pour?

And when the wind rakes the woods,
sends pine needles flying,
does her heart beat hard like mine
when hailstones strike?

Or does she shelter in a thicket,
feathers tucked tight, unperturbed
by sheets of rain and the pounding
roar of its refrain?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Advantage: Sun

We suffered through a brief hot spell this past week, and the humidity only intensified it. To those who live in the desert Southwest unrelenting heat is a way of life. But each summer stretches a bit longer, and even dry heat can suffocate.



Advantage: Sun


Eggs over hard
fry on an Arizona tarmac, tacky
from weather too hot for pilots or planes.

Outside a Vegas casino
flamingos cluster under mist sprayers
as temps edge toward 120 degrees,
the winning number for an indoor reprieve.

To the west of Phoenix
train tracks soften, spark as railcars slip.

And to the east
a dust storm blindfolds a major highway.
Jackknifed semis and crushed cars
enmesh like a complex Erector Set.

The Sonoran desert keeps raising
the ante, holds every ace
in this high stakes game
brazenly dealt by human hands.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Sunny

Rain drenched the north woods this past week, dumping over ten inches one stormy night, flooding roads and cabins, our own included, and claiming two lives in the process. It is hard to remember the dryness of the forest and the unexpected sandbars uncovered by the lake only a few years back. If only that were the problem now.



Sunny


A lazy pontoon day
on a lake grown smaller,
leaving mudflats and marshes
beneath extended docks,
revealing the island's geological
layers, exposing the nests of loons
and geese, water grasses gone.
Four years lost already,
slippery minnows through a net.
The old-timers talk of cycles,
the cabin owners shake their heads,
the water ripples carefree as bare feet,
plovers still play along the shoreline
and For Sale signs take root out front.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tracking Time in Singapore

Singapore was in the news this week. And since Andrew claims this island nation as his home, I have traveled there multiple times. Until I arrived there I had paid scant notice to its location on the equator and what that meant beyond implicit heat and humidity. Unvarying, year round daylight/nighttime hours without any prolonged twilights or rosy dawns.



Tracking Time in Singapore


Jet lag paints my eyes open, unblinking
as a china doll tucked in bed, searching
for smudges of light still hours away.

Regimented days - twelve hours
of fierce sun, twelve hours of lampblack -
etched in island bedrock.

No pre-dawn display of color,
no lingering dusk, only equatorial
equilibrium orchestrated by the ocean.

The globe creeps closer to the same
seven o'clock sunrise snapping up
like a shade, day after day

as if government mandated. An intrusion
on my unruly northern latitude attitude.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Six Legs, Eight Legs and More

On our last trip to the lake I noticed both the high number of mosquitoes and the lack of an army of dragonflies normally keeping those pesky buggers in check. Whatever the cause, crazy weather or something more nefarious, I truly hope this year is just an anomaly.



Six Legs, Eight Legs and More


     Who knew some insects molt, cling to twigs then wiggle out of themselves, leaving behind shells that crumble at a withering glance or a cutting remark? Scores of hollow carapaces hidden in branches of a bush counted on heavy rain to wash away traces of prior lives. Did the arthropods shed this intricate layer to free themselves of hidebound wraps or to escape past acts, old bosses, former paramours? Maybe gangs of bigger bugs bullied them, forced them into fedoras, compelling them to hide in plain sight like those in witness protection. Of all the field guides in the cabin not one devoted to entomology, nothing to decode the discarded casings. This lack of info on insects a reflection of my swat now, look later approach to all things creepy crawly. Not unlike the bashed false-eyelash that once terrorized my bathroom floor.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Limited Visibility

This past week I woke up to fog as dense as I've ever witnessed. Not only was the street in front of my windows invisible, the lawn, itself, had disappeared.

At seven in the morning on a workday, it was eerily quiet on this busy thoroughfare because of the lack of traffic. I counted myself lucky not to have to contend with such dismal driving conditions. And highway travel? The same set of problems only on speed.



Limited Visibility


Wind turbines, pale giants swallowed
by ghost clouds, spin layered vapor
floating over the plains.

Warning signs and raised crossbars
prepared to halt highway traffic
loom and recede like prairie phantoms.

Drifting snow and blizzards trigger
extended arms/alarms, but diaphanous fog,
famous for pileups, holds no leverage.

                              *

Uninvited passengers,
a throbbing headache and white knuckles,
slide in for the ride.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Building a Vocabulary

My phone carries an app for the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I like to kid myself that I know the meaning of each new Word of the Day posted on its front page. Most of them are familiar but, I will admit, some of the words baffle me. For instance, I had no idea what arrogate meant until it appeared front and center on today's app.



Building a Vocabulary


An-tho-phile
selected Word of the Day:

someone/something fascinated by
                                           flowers ---

bees, butterflies, and me.

Lilacs and lavender
               provender for them,
                                  aloe for my soul.

But weedkilling gly-phos-phates
unwittingly maim monarchs
                               and painted ladies

         while

neo-nic-o-ti-noids
inadvertently blindside beehives
on our way to the perfect lawn or
                 a bumper crop of corn.

We plant butterfly friendly bushes,
         scatter milkweed seeds,
             tally pollinators,
    rejoice at twosomes and more.

But lep-i-dop-tera and hy-me-nop-tera
              continue to dwindle
      here, there, and ev-ery-where.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor





   

Tipping Point

Back from the cabin up north where spring seems to come in fits and starts. At least the ice is out of the lake, leaving behind cold but clear water.

It's a different story for the ponds not far from my home here in the city. Last year seemed to be a tipping point, and egrets no longer tarry in these once pristine pools.



Tipping Point


Run-off herbicides and salt-winter streets.

Neighborhood ponds dull as dun,
no duck pairs nesting,
maybe two turtles sunbathing.

An egret, fresh from a long flight back,
steps into the tannin, dazed as a homeowner

scanning the muck fouling his house.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

How to Deal with Recalcitrant Plants

It's Mother's Day, and, of course, memories of my own mother persist, make me chuckle.

On this sunny May morning when so many are pumped about planting flowers, I can't help but think about Mom's relations with anything green.



How to Deal with Recalcitrant Plants


Weary of the pathos brought
by her own brown thumb
my mother heard
that plants respond to speech.

She turned to her orchid
bereft of blossoms.
Lovingly, she coaxed,
stubbornly, it resisted,
persisted as scraggly foliage.

Next up
a struggling philodendron.
Every morning she praised
the stunted leaves clinging
to trailing tendrils
until they died of embarrassment.

Then an ivy caught her attention,
eyed her warily
as she sidled close and cooed,
"I have three little words for you."

Appraising its droopy runners,
she let loose with
"CHOP, CHOP, CHOP!"

Mom never did hold with small talk.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Urban Warbler

Spring eluded us this year. It seems as if we jumped from a forever winter into the warmth of summer.

As if in fast forward, the trees are almost leafed out, and tulips buried under masses of snow two weeks ago are a day or two away from blooming in full color. More importantly, at least to me, cheerful song birds have returned to perform in surround sound.



Urban Warbler


sings spring from a spindly boulevard tree.
A solitary robin belting his heart out

cocky as a top ten artist, confident
of outperforming airbrakes, rumbling bass.

Locals open their windows,
curtail their cats, turn down their tunes

shrug at his disappearing acts,
walk with a lighter step when he's back -

this fair weather rockstar of our 'hood.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Ice Out

Snow remains on the ground both here in slowly melting parking lot piles, and at the cabin in hollows, ditches, and blanketing the forest floor.  Of course, the lake remains capped with ice. With the right timing, my ears can attest to the protests of trapped water, itching to be free.



Ice Out


Deep throated whoops,
muffled vibratos escape as I scan
the lake's frozen cover
cracked and vulnerable as tempered glass.

A lost beluga whale? Inland?

More likely the sound
of water planning a breakout,
scheming through frigid walls of lockdown.

And I know it's only a matter of shocks
before waves roll free,
and farther north icebergs flee,
shadowing leviathans' timeworn trails.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Minnesota Haiku - April

Last weekend's winter weather should have prompted these lines of haiku, but I was too busy enjoying daffodils and magnolias, blooming in London.

Come late Sunday my plane landed back here in the Cities at the end of a fierce winter storm. A rude reminder of why mid-April is no guarantee of soft spring days.



Minnesota Haiku - April


Foolhardy warblers
traveled off-season too soon,
hunker in hedges.

No geese on the wing,
their favorite resorts late
to open, iced in.

Crows in black trench coats
laugh at spring blizzards, swap storm
stories in tree tops.

Buds on bare branches
hold close their cards, refuse to
gamble with north winds.

The crab apple tree,
Shiva arms askew, gathers
snow garlands, not blooms.

Only the crocus
defies winter-scapes, pops like
a jack-in-the-box.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor



 

The More Things Change

I'm trying to ignore the blizzard at home that I will be flying into later today. By that time, I sincerely hope it will have been downgraded to a mere snowstorm.

Meanwhile, it's been quite pleasant here in London the past few days. On one of my prior trips to England we took a side trip to Bath. An amazing British town.



The More Things Change


In Bath Romans built Minerva a shrine,
placed it by warm springs and healing waters,
relaxed in the pools beneath arched designs,
and next door honored Jupiter's daughter.
They petitioned their deity on bright
silver pieces of thinly wrought metal:
"As for my neighbor, Julian, please smite
him for stealing my two head of cattle."
The conquerors left, their temple perished,
a scattering of entreaties remained.
In time a new god and church to cherish
rose by those baths on the flat English plain.
And a basket in that Abbey today
holds pleas not unlike those of bygone days.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Small Talk

For the next couple of Sundays I will be in London, staying with my daughter and her family. Tomorrow we have tickets to see a Picasso Exhibition at the Tate. Standing among brilliant works of art frequently holds me tongue tied as do social gatherings where I'm lucky to know maybe one other person in the room.



Small Talk


And I rue
my Northern European reserve:

a Study in Black and White pinned
among an exuberance of Matisse

Wyeth's Helga surrounded by Warhol's,
Mao and Marilyn

a Vermeer
silenced by a three-eyed Picasso.

But how to reveal
my Miro
overpainted by forbearance?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Delayed Departure

Winter has not lost its grip here in the north country. Today is Easter Sunday, and the current temperature sits at 12 degrees with a windchill hovering around zero. This year's Sunrise Services will not be for the faint of heart.



Delayed Departure


The vireos arrive as scheduled
but the frosty tenant refuses to vacate
despite a contract that states
"Checkout time: April."

Borealis holds the management
hostage with bursts of sleet,
arm wrestles the south wind
as the zephyr tries to eject him.

Tired of spring blunting his blows
he exits in a fit of royal pique,
swirling a brazen mantle of snow
like a visitor snubbed.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Deadfall

It is still winter up at the cabin. At least two feet of snow continues to cover the ground in the forest, and a smattering of the white stuff persists on the lake. However, a sun inching higher in the sky, and temps in the upper 20s made for great snow-shoeing both on the lake and in the woods.



Deadfall


An ancient pine slumps
against a neighbor
caught
as he fell in the wind and snow.

His outer bark
undone and curled back
like a long-coat shrugged off
in the final delirium of hypothermia.

Shoulder-to-shoulder
the companion
now improbably set
in a death tableau meant for one.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Vernal Equinox

Tuesday will mark the spring equinox, and the world is thawing. Banks of snow, some covered in road grime, others still pristine, slowly slip away. The lakes hold fast to their ice, but only a fool would venture onto them. It is the birds, more than anything, that confirm the coming of springtime.



Vernal Equinox


I crack a late winter window
        to hear the change of seasons
                    singing through the pines

Traveling troupes
                of warblers chasing
                                          longer days

Exuberant enough to nudge
                 even a curmudgeon's  
                           off-duty dancing feet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Tools of the Trade

Yes, I am a day early with my blog, but I am leaving, shortly, for a Pediatric Conference in Arizona. Even though I am retired, I like to keep current with the latest medical information.

It helps that the meeting is held where flowers are in bloom, and, oh-by-the-way, where a sister of mine lives.



Tools of the Trade


Mickey Mouse waves
with each sweep of my watch.

A timepiece
that makes friends with toddlers,
acts as a monitor for hearts,
tests recall in head injuries,
tracks endless-seeming seizures,
counts the breaths of babies.

I find my double-bell stethoscope
almost as useful.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Cosmic Comedy

This past week saw record February snowfall here in the Twin Cities followed by a string of days in the mid-forty degree range. Tomorrow's forecast predicts another six inches of the white stuff just when you think Borealis has lost his grip.

Condo living removes some of winter's frustrations, but I clearly remember the angst of unexpected spring snowstorms even in the month of April.



Cosmic Comedy


I know I complained about the sullied bedrolls of snowbanks. And, yes, I whined about the archeological finds of cigarette butts and discarded styrofoam, emerging through winter's shrinking drifts. But why did you decide to listen to me this time, and try to make things nice? Sure, last night's whiteout hides the grime, and the heap of fresh snow balanced delicately on stilled branches is worthy of its front page photo. But after the last blizzard my right boot now leaks, my snake-bit car balks at the end of the drive, and six inches of cement-like moisture awaits my dented shovel, already claiming workman's comp. We are not amused.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

And So It Begins

This past week marked the anniversary of my father's death. Somehow it's easier and more satisfying to keep track of his birthdays, but both dates rekindle memories of one of my personal heroes.

Dad was a gentleman in every sense of the word, a man of integrity, and always very patient even through the difficult year at the end of his life. I miss him a lot.



And So It Begins


My father fell from his bed one night
or rather his legs buckled when he stood
intent on reaching the loo. Jarred awake,
my mother tried in vain to lift
his once solid frame now collapsed
like pick-up-sticks in a hotel room.
Unnerved, she called the front desk,
his left side limp as a floppy sail.
A CT scan leaked a secret they shared:
a series of minor strokes, traceable tremors,
preceding the earthquake.

My father fell from his bed one night
or rather his legs buckled when he stood
to find his way to the nearby commode.
In the urgency of a bladder taut
as a water balloon he forgot he couldn't walk.
The clamor caught the notice of the nurse
who neglected to secure his bed rails.
X-rays spoke of a broken hip, months of rehab.

My father fell from his bed one night
or rather his legs buckled when he stood,
attempting a routine bathroom run at home,
walker at the ready. Startled from sleep,
still powerless to shift her spouse's body
crumpled once more on the floor, my mother
reached for the phone, her own hand shaking.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Lunacy

The flags continue to fly at half-staff this morning, reminding us of the lives lost in the latest school shooting. Reminding us, too, that we all have a stake in stopping this craziness.

I wrote the poem that follows shortly after another mass murder. This one in the theater in Aurora, Colorado, as the loop of non-action rolled again.  



Lunacy


The magazine
shows photos of Aurora's dark night.

The Dark Knight
wrestles with mayhem in the theater.

The theater
bleeds bodies from live ammo.

The live ammo
fills the clips of magazines.

And the Joker smirks, "It's our Right."



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Birthday Gifts

Some people have a knack for finding just the right gift for whatever occasion. Most of us aren't as lucky, and someone close to me struggles. But at least his heart is in the right place.



Birthday Gifts from a Man
Who Doesn't Buy Presents


From a box sans paper or ribbons
a potter's handcrafted mug
circled with an obi-like band,
                  almost
     Japanese in aesthetic.

An upgrade over last year's gnome
gracing my utility room counter,
collecting pennies and pop-tops
                  in his linty wheelbarrow.

Though my grandson would disagree,
considers the pointy-hatted statue
                 "awesome."
The man and the boy riding the same
guileless wavelength, frequently.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Blue Moon

Earlier this week a rare lunar event transpired. A super moon, a blue moon, and a lunar eclipse, casting a reddish hue, coincided with each other. Predawn the morning of January 31st it hung in our western sky in all of its glory. But I missed it, and can't even blame cloud cover.

I do remember the last blue moon in July of 2015, and wondered then if it would truly be bluish in color. Most everyone, myself included, forgot about the forest fires raging in the west, and what happens to the atmosphere as a result.



Blue Moon


Three years in the waiting.

The gloaming
now inky enough to pen night's coming,
underscore moonrise.

Which shade will she wear -
winter-sky pastel or lily-pond wash?

Off to the East
behind trailing scarves of clouds
her unhurried ascent:

a stunning blood-orange.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Weighted Sky

We traveled to the cabin this weekend. It remains snug and warm despite surrounding snow and daytime highs in the teens. A sky full of sunshine always helps, too. This morning we woke to flurries, creating a pristine world once more, but certain to cause problems for the unwary.



Weighted Sky


Finally, sunshine through winter pines.

But skulking across the lake
stratocumuli like streaks of ash
smudge the tree line's edge.

And the north wind,
moody as a stepmother, threatens
to blow the pile of them into a mess
even Cinderella cannot sweep away.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Flashback

Like so many combatants back from war my peers who fought in Viet Nam would not speak of it. Then Ken Burns released his ten episode series on PBS about those hostilities, and the spectacle/specter returned in living color. That whole period continues to haunt me.

Flashback

Buried in the paper:

Agent Orange causes cancer

even in vets who worked

the desks in Saigon,

never fought on the frontline.

My friend pushed papers

there, shot skeet for action,

came home alive.

I thought to call him

with this news then realized

he died twenty years ago,

a fast growing renal tumor

taking him down.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Wrong Again

Even in deepest January with its unrelenting cold, if I listen, I can hear the calls of birds that overwinter here, especially, when the sky is clear and sunshine abundant. And that is enough to make me smile through these interminable layers of winter.



Wrong Again


Cardinals lift my spirits whether those feathered bits of pleasure sing summer or greet winter on branches blanketed with snow. Their enchanted call and response easily identified among avian scores. Or so I thought. Then I downloaded a birding app, discovered this refrain did not come from the throats of those resplendent songbirds. News almost as disturbing as the truth about Santa. Black-capped chickadees had copyrighted the three note melody, suddenly making the tune less delightful. Now I must reprogram my ears to hear the song sung by the scarlet warblers. A refrain almost as intricate as a Mozart passage. The intro to "Three Blind Mice" was so much easier to recognize.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Vespers

Recently, I attended a retirement party for one of my ER colleagues. Being retired myself, I no longer feel the gravity that comes with the responsibility for the lives of pediatric patients, and it is freeing.

While I worked in the ER my escape valve was the cabin up north, and to this day remains a source of serenity. On more than one occasion, my professional life and north woods life felt vividly juxtaposed.



Vespers


A ten-year old girl covered with hives

                   Miles into midnight countryside

Wheezing hard, unable to speak
Blood pressure levels slipping fast

                   Winter solstice weather
                   Crystalline and cold

In the ER a dance of rescue unfolds
Drugs slam home, infuse, relax

                   The wrap of blackness broken
                   Beneath a billion star sky

Breathing slower, a faint smile: good signs

                   Looking up, we almost feel divine.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor