Something Lost

These days I find more people than usual walking/running/jogging around a nearby lake. "Shelter-in-place but it's okay to exercise outdoors" drives most of them. But nature, herself, hasn't changed, so why not tune in?



Something Lost


Joggers, runners, and walkers
intent on their workout
stare pointedly ahead.
Wires dangle from earplugs
connected to distractors
tucked discreetly in clothes.

With ears stoppered
how will they hear
the songs of spring warblers,
silvery notes of snowmelt,
shouts of kids dashing by on bikes,
the laughter of fellow travelers,
wind tousling the trees,
or the two-note call of chickadees?


The music of life in surround sound
as they pound by, oblivious.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Winter Rain

At the beginning of March I flew to Phoenix for a national conference. Three weeks ago Coronavirus was but an annoying blip on the radar. And I needed a dose of warm weather and sunshine.



Winter Rain

A desert monsoon blindsides me,
batters me as I bob and weave

beneath resort overhangs like a quail
seeking shelter under prickly pears.

Slate-grey clouds strip days of warmth,
give lie to the moniker "Valley of the Sun."

Drenched, I pause before a door
that will not open.

Rain ricochets as cactus wrens
across the way huddle in saguaros

with no need for room keys nor rain gear.
Sniffles plague my head

like the storm rolling across the Southwest,
and the niggling possibility of Coronavirus.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

In the Forest

I love to hear the wind come up in the forest. There is something special about the sound, especially since I grew up on the plains where the wind is a constant presence.



In the Forest


a boreal blow rumbles into a rush
from deep within its chest

the sighs of wood sprites
echo through firs on fitful drafts

and murmurs emerge from breezes
before birch leaves think to ripple.

Nuances of wind
            rustle through timberlands,

remain a mystery to its prairie sib
     who whistles but one tune
at two tempos: moderato or presto.

A zephyr, a mistral, a trumpet
without a mute playing on an open stage
                       from Texas to the Dakotas.

But the tenor of wildwood storms
sounds increasingly like those found

on the plains,
and those on the plains now occur
more frequently with the fortissimo

of musicians on a high
          supplied by Mother Nature
                                     and courtesy of us.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Busy Bodies

The warmth of spring encourages all signs of life, including the stirring of insects. Asian beetles are reawakening one by one inside our cabin which led me to thinking about last year's nearby hornets and our neighbor's distress.



Busy Bodies


The snows of winter will settle
on an abandoned masterpiece,
but Gary will no longer care.

Like an upside-down swirl
of meringue clinging to a string
of spun sugar

a hornet's nest sways
in a patch of trees off our drive.
The whorled, lightweight hive

deserves a photo spread
in House and Home. But my neighbor
itches to spray away the busy hub.

Mercifully, autumn now rules.
Sightings of the queen
and her legions grow more rare

and soon Gary
will be fending off insects
down in heavy, Florida air.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor