Surrealism

Up to the lake the past few days. The trees look stark without their leafy coverings, but the snow is beautiful.



Surrealism


An army of gaunt, Giacometti trees
guard the lakefront. Towering

thirty to forty feet, slender as shafts,
and flourishing up north.

The leaves of summer, the carmine
of autumn disguise their lankiness

but the acid-wash of winter
exposes a lean and hungry look

like boniness cast in bronze.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

January at the Cabin

Andrew and I decided to feed the birds again at the cabin, but only in winter while the neighborhood bears hibernate. I have to say it's a good thing we aren't the birds only source of food.



January at the Cabin


Early this morning
the sun stepped out

before it realized how frigid
the air

then tucked itself
under a handy throw of clouds.

So far, only a lone raven
and two jays

brave the winter breezes.
Outside our window

no chickadees or juncos
forage for food

despite the newly seeded feeder,
our monthly handouts too erratic.

A few weeks of no cracked corn
and skepticism prevails

before they spot our time limited,
all-you-can-eat-buffet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Winter's Eve

I was reminded yesterday as I drove in the snow and cold of January in Minneapolis that no matter the weather or time of year someone will always be at a stop sign, looking for a handout, and much worse off than I will ever be. I came across this gentleman earlier in the season.



Winter's Eve


Half rain, half sleet
drops from above as worn
wipers squeak in protest,
leaving a drizzle thin arc.

A man with a sorry
stocking hat plastered
to his hair stands on a street
corner, head cocked, listening

to which whispers?
A wilted cardboard sign
held in ungloved fingers
fades into the gloom

with its scrawled plea.
Occasionally, cars stop
and arms emerge, wave a bill.
Clad in a torn jeans jacket

he clutches the money, smiles,
nods, slips on icy patches.
My car creeps forward, heater
humming. The cold and slush

an annoyance to me, not the icy
misery that dictates his day
the mere thickness of a glass pane
away. His watery eyes meet mine.

I have to believe it is help
that I hand through my window.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Lost Idyll

One thing I love about the cabin in winter is the profound quiet of deep snow. The way it muffles the earth with thick, white batting.

One thing I have also learned is that it is impossible to completely escape the noise of today's world.



Lost Idyll


Twelve degrees and still.
Chimney smoke drifts
like a windless sail tacking
nowhere. Fine lace runners
of tatted snowflakes grace
balsams circled by deer tracks
and squirrel markings.
Only fat jays fragment
the crystallized sunshine
        -   a cappella   -
discounting the snowmobiles
barreling through the forest.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor