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