Wildfire

Unlike the previous 20 months, May in Minnesota did not average above normal temperatures. But that quickly changed with the arrival of June. Most of the State posted highs in the 90s the past few days. Just in time for the controversial withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement.

However, the heat we experienced last spring was one for the record books. And it was felt far beyond Minnesota.



Wildfire


A pall drifted in overnight,
tracings of a raging forest fire riding
Canadian air south. This one tangible

as a ninety-degree wrap in May, in Minnesota.
Not easily dismissible as someone's tall tale.

In Alberta parched pines burn on tar sands
owned by oilmen selling hydrocarbons.
A company town, booming as any goldmine
encampment, evacuated when gusty winds set in.

Nearby, levels down on the waterway tapped
to help with fracking.

"Karma," murmurs the Athabasca River,
drained of power, burdened with impurities,
fed up with the heat of man.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Obits: 19 May 2016

I have a confession to make: obituaries fascinate me. One can find amazing stories in the thumbnail sketches of people's lives, and I often find myself humbled while reading them.

A year ago I was struck by the fact that two, okay 67, newsworthy deaths took place on the same day -  those aboard an Egyptian Airliner, and half a world away, Morley Safer. It made me wonder about all the other people who might have died within those same 24 hours, and how little we know of our fellow travelers at this point in time.



Obits: 19 May 2016


Mostly unrecognized, the man
wearing the sports coat patiently waited
his turn in the crowded anteroom.
Occasionally a whispered, "Isn't that Morley
Safer from 60 Minutes?" reached his ears.

But the sixty-six souls from the fated flight
of EgyptAir 804 paid no heed, nor did
a group of war-savaged Syrians,
or those snagged by India's heat wave,
nor numberless others left out of headlines
but now called to account for their lives.

So many compelling stories,
and St. Peter with the only pen in the place.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Gully

Back to the cabin this weekend. Back to higher lake levels and filling wetlands. Back to a raw northeast wind and a slow but constant rain. Unlike the two day downpour of last spring that cost three people their lives, but raising the water table just as effectively.



Gully


Rain-besotted ground, tree roots rotting,
dry land no longer but true boreal bog.
Blue spruce waterlogged, day-trippers tripped up.

Stalled rainclouds sent rivers rampaging,
buckling roadways.
Three careless souls overwhelmed
by rushing water,
caught in separate nets of rashness.

Northwood news but not national. No one
live-streaming mayhem from black-top roads.
Only a doe and her fawn
attempting to leap a ditch turned floodway,
and a slow moving car with out-of-state plates.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

No Ballerina Flats in the Bunch

It's Mother's Day, and how can I not remember my mom. She stood barely five feet tall while my dad's six foot frame towered over her. As a result of this height difference and possessing an innate sense of fashion, three inch heels were her friends.

Like a lot of women she loved shoes. Many of them followed her from the family home to assisted living, and even a few found space in a long term care closet. Here's to you, Mom, a woman who lived life to the fullest.



No Ballerina Flats in the Bunch


Boxes of shoes
like guests reluctant to leave
crowded your closet,
hand-tooled pumps and heels

many of them stilettos outdated
to the point of being retro.
As a fashionista you never left home
in anything less.

With time and a leaky heart
your ankles started to balloon. You fumed,
frustrated as those unable to wear
the charmed glass slipper.

How many stores did we shop
trying to find something
both stylish and practical
before you agreed to a slip-on, forever

regarded with disdain? And woe
be to the daughter who suggested donating
any former footwear to the Goodwill.
You were not done with the high life yet.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

I Don't Want To

Since I'm still in London and immersed in my daughter's life, here is one more blog from my point of view about her year long journey fighting breast cancer. As I mentioned before, her Annus Horribilis is behind her, and she is more than well on her way to recovery.

It's always good to spend time with her family; it's always bittersweet to leave.



I Don't Want To


tackle your white cell count
decipher your persistent nausea
compile a file of toxic drugs
badger you not to ignore a fever
caution you to avoid crowds
fret about airborne infections
weigh the chance of cardiac side effects
hear you stumble with "chemo brain"
notice you fumble with stiffened fingertips
interpret your pathology report
weep as I watch women Race for the Cure.

I only want to be your mother, brush the hair
from your shoulders, banish the monsters
from under your bed.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
 

Shore

I'm currently in London visiting my daughter and her family. For those of you who routinely follow this blog, you already know she was diagnosed with breast cancer about 18 months ago. I am very glad to say she made it through chemo and surgery and radiation with her spirits intact, is back at work, and is doing well.

Of course, I wrote several poems about her long journey from my own perspective. And, more importantly, she has given me the OK to share some of them. Two of which will surface this Sunday and next.



Shore


The sea shifted the moorings,
stranding me on the wharf,
as cancer, a tidal wave, dragged my daughter.

Left me, a physician, to pace
like parents I once counseled,
on a desolate beach, all
afraid of spying any debris from chemo.

Used to piloting the rescue,
able to pinpoint each trickster reef,
I lean into the wind but the sand shifts
as I watch others fight to save her.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor  

April Fool

Yes, we journeyed again to the north woods this weekend with the weather taking us on a rollercoaster ride. Only shirt sleeves needed the first day. Perfect for pushing in our dock, soaking up warmth. But overnight the frogs went from a full-throated chorus to "save your energy" quiet. The next morning brought wind and snow on the coattails of plummeting temperatures.

The sudden change reminded me of an April in the Cities a few years back when a crabapple tree set to bloom, failed to do so.



April Fool


Rosy shafts of surprise
skim the soft wood
of an apple tree.

Its arms caught
with a sunrise of snow
blushing deeply.

A heartbreak color
embraced
where blossoms should be.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Grand Ole Creamery

Sunday morning and the skies are clear, finally. A faint haze of green colors tree branches, bushes. And I have already witnessed lawn mowers in action. The delight of no longer needing to wear a jacket becomes reason enough to spend time outside.

I used to live a stone's throw from the world's best ice cream shoppe. Okay, if not the world, at least here in the Twin Cities. I sorely miss being able to walk a mere half block and indulge in a waffle cone overfilled with coffee flavored ice cream augmented with bits of chocolate cookie. Per usual, it's the small operations that repeatedly earn high marks.

Grand Ole Creamery

A pleasure

to stand in a line 

zigzagging out the door  

and down the street

of the mom and pop shop

at 8:00 o'clock on the first

pleasant evening in spring

all for a scoop of homemade

ice cream.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

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