Unaccompanied Minor

On our trip to the cabin in early March we came across a pair of swans pausing in the waters of a wetland, presumably hoping to find an open lake. Even with the warming atmosphere, "ice out" doesn't occur until late April that far north. I fear for those too early, too eager birds but will never know their fate.

Shortly after the ice disappeared at the cabin last year I spied a returning loon, or so I thought. They are the first waterbirds to make themselves at home on the lake come spring, no matter how chilly the water.



Unaccompanied Minor


The vernal equinox come and gone
yet nighttime frosts persist,
winter's dunning agents.
A flash of white like a message
from a signal light
rides the waterline - the loon returned.

But the size is wrong, more of a liner
than a small tug. Black eyes instead of red
and a long, goose-shaped neck once unfurled.

The bird, a singleton, glides off,
unaware of fading ugly-duckling coloring.
Head held as if royalty
bears the favor of spring: a cygnet on the cusp.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Plane Spotting

Yes, I am two days late this week but my excuse is valid. I spent an extended weekend with my son and his family simply enjoying myself. They live in northern Indiana, and there exists a non-stop flight between here and there. It's a quick trip by air, and, more importantly, avoids the hassle of dealing with the traffic in Chicago.

From where I live in the Cities I have a great view of planes landing and/or departing. And I never tire of watching them.



Plane Spotting


Rush hour in the sky commences
from a copse of hardwoods
or so it seems.

How many souls catapult
towards adventure? Who tackles
another day on the job?

Which suitcases pack
power points? Presents? Snorkels?
Suits? Sandals? Ties? Travel guides?
Ski wear? Beach wear? Wing-tips?

From my perch how I wish
my name graced a passenger list
instead of a book club confirmation.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Fine Dining/Cash Only

Finding fresh seafood at a reasonable cost and on a regular basis proves challenging when one lives 1500 miles from the nearest ocean. Nearly every shipment found at local stores needs to be frozen before making its way inland. Not quite the same as enjoying it seaside.

So, when we traveled to San Fransisco last fall we were delighted to discover Barbara's Fishtrap down the coast a bit, and well worth the drive.



Fine Dining/Cash Only


Barbara's Fishtrap:
back door open to the ocean,
a lodestone drawing diners
strung like magnets out the front,
tolerating rain-gear weather
for their turn at rickety tables
and the catch of the day, savory
as any at the Ritz
a few miles south on Half Moon Bay.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Long Range Forecast

I am feeling a sense of whiplash. From 90+ degree heat and blossoming orange trees in Phoenix to freezing temps and chevrons of snow, covering a still frozen lake up north. All within a matter of 36 hours.

This week the desert Southwest continues to occupy my mind even though I just returned from spending three days in northern Wisconsin. As disparate as the two regions are, they share something in common: rising temperatures.



Long Range Forecast


Up north the old duffer talks
with a mouth gritty from hard times.
Whiskey rolls his tongue
and resurrects visions
of topsoil blowing away,
one planting season to the next.

In the Southwest whirling dervish
sandstorms swirl across the desert,
smother cities, stall traffic,
no longer make the nightly news.
The taste of the Sonora
now coating Margarita Fridays.

Records for warmth
topple across the seasons, the country,
and those with a nearsighted frame
of reference scoff at alternative energies,
press for pipelines through farm fields,
aquifers, and tribal lands.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Hertz - City Map of Phoenix

Every year I fly to Arizona as winter wanes. I travel here for a variety of reasons: 1) for an annual medical conference 2) to briefly leave behind bare trees, cold weather and snow 3) to spend time with my sister who happens to live in Phoenix, the best reason of all.

The dates of the conference vary. Sometimes it's held in February, other years in March. As you will see, I dusted off a poem I wrote about a previous journey to this area. The details may change but the sentiments remain the same.



Hertz - City Map of Phoenix


In the frostbite of February
you guide me in the Valley of the Sun
to red rock boulders scattered
like flashy dice across the flat
desert table, past anterooms filled
with rakish prickly-pears.

Take me down alleys of dusty adobe
to Southwest-woven fairs, fry bread dancing
on hot skillets, Navajo thunder rumbling
from hide-stretched drums. Later, point me
to Mariachi music and margaritas under the stars.

This year: directions to an open air
Chihuly exhibit, hand blown glass rising
between the saguaro. Upstart cacti
in poppy red and bluebell and buttercup
revel in the shallows of the Sonora.

But always at the bottom of the map
a fat green line intersects the airport,
waiting.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Change of Season

Our winter has been mild this year with even Seattle out-snowing Minneapolis during January and February. Add to that a seven day run of record warmth and spring is on the move. On last week's trek north to the cabin I spotted a pair of swans, either daring or foolish, standing in thawed wetlands. But as tulips continue to prematurely poke through the crusty earth all of us up here know not to count out old-man-winter just yet.  



Change of Seasons


In the distance a trio of cranes,
stolid metal works mired in March.

Their plumed counterparts
still wintering along the Gulf Coast.

Not for them bare-branched trees, mud
and melted snow, rather swaying grasses
and buds fat with blossoms.

But given this winter's warmth
they may hitch a ride on a tempting thermal,
land in frigid ponds still patchy with ice,
grow stiff as their fabricated namesakes.

Or maybe a "Closed for the Season" sign
scouted on the door of an ice cream store
dampens deliberations of an early journey
as they step around pilings supporting the pier.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Yes, It's Still February

Despite the six-day-run of record breaking warm temperatures it really is still February. And that was brought home to me this weekend up at the cabin. Highs of 20 degrees and snow squalls.

Secretly, it pleased me to see the ground blanketed with white once again since it's definitely winter no matter how you dice it. But I am done with the month of February. That taste of 60-degree days spoiled me, and I am hoping for the arrival of an early spring.



Yes, It's Still February


In this mini-month
the days drag their feet
over blizzard slag heaps
beneath clouds of wet wool
velcroed to the sky.

They schlep carryalls filled
with sniffles and coughs
and their own guarded secret
which I finally intuited:
each of them is 36 hours long
like the Dantesque days of residency.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Accidental Coffin Maker

On our last trek north we ran into major plumbing problems. The toilet tank cracked and drained, and in sympathy its neighbor, the sink, started to leak. Luckily, a jack-of-all-trades lives down the road.

His temperament can be irascible at times but underneath the crustiness beats a generous heart. More than once he has come to our rescue. Last summer we caught up with him in his workshop, sanding a small box, a carefully crafted piece of workmanship.



The Accidental Coffin Maker


The northwoods whiskey-swilling
carpenter builds wicked-good cabinets
when not nursing a grudge
or in the thick of a bar-provoked fight
over some perceived slight.

His neighbor wedded to a woman
with Alzheimer's looks beyond the bluster.
Commissions a handcrafted box, cross
planed on the lid, sized to sit on a dresser,
contain a bag of ashes.
Knows it will be polished with care.

Somehow, word will leak out,
and woe to the local who snickers.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Burma Shave Country

We traveled to the cabin this weekend, three hours north and east of here, wondering whether or not we would need boots given the mild winter and scarcity of snow in the Cities. But we knew better than to leave them behind. Minimal snow covered the landscape all the way there.

Once at the cabin, deep in a shaded forest, maybe six to eight inches of the white stuff awaited us. Enough for boots but woefully short for this time of year.



Burma Shave Country


Abandoned by the winter barber
and stuck in a February chair
the scavenged fields of corn remain
shadowed with husks itchy and dry.

Their wrap of moisture missing
the croplands pray for a late lather,
defenseless before April plows,
scraping clean their contours.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

Reflection

As some of you know, my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer 14 months ago. She survived her horrible, not so good, very bad year, and has returned to work unbowed and positive spirit intact.

Of course, I had to write about her plight, viewing it from both a mother's and a physician's perspective. An uncomfortable position to occupy. With her blessing I am posting the first of an occasional poem about this journey.



Reflection


Grandma,
a tumor hijacked your ovaries, slackened
the drape of your dress, loosened the fit
of your rings, traveled with you
to a new land, filched your final breath.

And you, only 47. The age of my daughter
now fighting breast cancer, hitching-up her jeans
as she walks the heath, wedding band snug in a pocket.

Is it a spun thread of DNA embedded with shards
that snags the two of you?

Like facing a mirror darkly, one to the other familiar:
two women ex-pats by choice
two women petite, stoic, gutsy
two women shadowboxing on their own.

You with prayer and morphine,
she with chemo and surgery.

The silvering behind the looking-glass grown cloudy.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Memory

My mother suffered a stroke a dozen years before her death. It robbed her of the capacity to form new memories but left her physically intact and irascible as always. She retained the ability to remember people and events up until the day of her stroke. If Mom knew you before, she clearly remembered you afterwards. If you met her after that time, you forever remained a mystery to her except in the moment.

The same conditions applied to happenings around my mother. The recollection of any affair, be it joyful or calamitous, simply did not take root. With the uproar of provacative headlines now coming at us daily, there are times I envy that fugue.



Memory


Old woman,
what is it like to live with a decade
of images that failed to gel?

You recall waving at the Kaiser
but do not know your neighbors,
reminisce about your aunt's hand-dipped
chocolates while breakfast remains
an enigma. Dad's last stroke and his year
in long term care slip through your neurons
like water through a porous flowerpot.

Unable to retain today's raw dispatches
you live easier with the past's softened edges,
reconciled to a son's attempted suicide,
a daughter's teenage pregnancy,
your children's divorces.

You have no need of headlines.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Webster's Unabridged Dictionary

A while back I stumbled on a very large/outdated unabridged dictionary. The kind that once rested on a stand specifically crafted for those tomes. I admit I love books, and my idea of a blissful afternoon is wandering through a bookstore, preferably independently owned, chock full of unusual and interesting titles.

When I came upon this lone volume used as a prop in a fusty antique furniture store, I couldn't believe my luck. The shop owner had it priced at only $10, apparently to make it disappear quickly. I happily obliged him.



Webster's Unabridged Dictionary


Discovered like a once lost friend, it sat
silenced by dour furniture in an antique store.

Stiff-backed as a queen's guard,
its prime shape belied a 1935 print date

as it waited to flex its vocal cords
anew from aal to zyxomma.

Filled with funky words such as frab
and forswonk. Peppered with phrases

that sound as if I should know them:
King of Swat and the Roaring Forties.

Laced with lingo blowing through the 30s:
Hooverize, Jersey lightening, and Okie.

On page nine fifty-three under "P"
a parade of found nouns: pavon, pawk

and payen. Trounce words for tight
corners and scrabble's tough letters.

Dismissed by today's generation
as the man with a dusty bow tie

it remains the charming uncle now home,
regaling us with stories to rival Odysseus.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Rumplestiltskin Enterprises

As I travel west across the Minnesota prairies, I have noticed fields of wind turbines sprouting where acres of corn and soybeans once grew. I watched as a nascent line of five burgeoned into hundreds like dandelion fluff spreading on the breeze, unstoppable. A sustainable crop of energy even in deepest January.


Rumplestiltskin Enterprises


First there were five then ten,
now clusters of lithe maidens
tall against the horizon harvesting
the wind, slender arms turning,
endlessly spinning the rush of air
into platinum threads of electricity,
and no firstborns need be relinquished
nor the world as we know it.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Transformations

Janus has always fascinated me. With one face remembering the past and the other foreseeing the future, he endures as a symbol of change. Legions of soldiers invoked his name when they went to war but so did farmers, married couples, and countless others facing transitions. Considered a major Roman god, he ranked alongside Jupiter.

Our closest likeness remains a weary Father Time and the fired-up New Year's Infant as they cross paths each January 1st. To my mind, Janus conveys a much better image.



Transformations


Janus,
two-faced deity of ancient Rome,
youth and age back to back,
god of good beginnings,
triumphal endings.

Should we then look to you
as we grow older
for a grand closing to our years?
Or do you prefer to preside
over warring soldiers?

But isn't life a battle, aren't we
warriors, all, and doesn't time
pick up power and speed
as the days advance?

What strategy do you hold
for mortal man? How do we stand
strong when memories betray us,
endurance flags, and illness nips
at our heels?

Or are these end points too difficult
even for you? And is that why
the Greeks had no one equivalent
in their pantheon of gods?



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor