Black Sheep

Fall now, and the trees are lovely. Some streets hold nothing but hardwoods turned gold, and some play host to only Crimson King maples. But most of the city is flooded with a mix of vibrant autumn hues, and steadfast evergreens act as the perfect foil. A beautiful time in the Northland.



Black Sheep


I fretted for the tamaracks, naively.

Patches of yellowed pines
dropping needles on October breezes.
A study of struggle in sepia, wasteland
tableaus within evergreen forests.

Searching for bark beetles or blight,
I thumbed my Field Guide, discovered
instead, a fibster, a faker, a mocker,
and the truth of this imagined disaster.

Come autumn these trees
follow a beat of their own - shed bowties,
cummerbunds and all, unlike stately cousins,
and much to the family's chagrin.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Mid-Autumn Delights

Each October Asian cultures celebrate the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival, a major holiday kindred to Thanksgiving. These festivities feature traditional foods and focus on family gatherings. At harvest time mooncakes have been known to appear on our own table here in Minnesota.



Mid-Autumn Delights


Around the curve of a night road
a rising moon
wide as the street-way, itself,

golden as the mooncakes in the box.
A harvest treat filled
with lotus paste, a taste of your past,
a foreign flavor on my tongue.

A total turnabout
from yesterday's fresh apple pie.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Stills

Back to the cabin this past week. It was unusually warm for late September, and rainy. But that didn't stop us from hiking the woods where we startled a doe and her fawn into statue-like stillness before they turned and loped deeper into the forest. Their presence reminded me that hunting season draws ever closer.



Stills


The camera catches
the unseeing eye of a felled deer,
a small slit in the lens.

Did a twig snatch it, scratch it
as the warm brown body
stumbled?

The color blue
bending into black
pools under thick lashes.

I have seen quiet eyes
like this before
on a wild ER night.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Flying Horse

Occasionally, I spy a red Pegasus on an older gas station, but more frequently I see the logo on diverse items and in various states of neglect displayed as collectibles for sale. I am told that this trademark still adorns some ExxonMobil products. The last time I spotted the mythological horse, I had to learn more.



The Flying Horse


Pegasus,
how did the ad men capture you,
fix you in flight, deem you red,
rework you into an icon of oil and fuel?

You who fought battles to the death
in ancient Greece, brought thunder
and lightening to Zeus at his request,
ranked foremost among his steeds.

You who flew with a mortal on your back
but threw him in his greed. You who
could not be easily reined in.

Were you not paying attention,
lost in old glories, comfortable living
in the past?

Eighty years now
and the wind still carries echoes of anguish
as the lasso of commerce snared you.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Incorrigible

September and some trees already manifest a color change. The contrast with their summer-green neighbors invariably grabs my attention whether here in the Cities or up north as the forest takes it first steps towards autumn.

Such a tree in my own yard captivated me daily with its beauty and a sense of autonomy a few years back. Enough to leave me with a lasting impression.



Incorrigible


In my backyard
breathes a young maple
who streaked a solitary branch
crimson red.

Tosses it
to contrast her birthright green.
Flounces her defiance
before old firs and hardwoods.

Not for her
the group makeover in October,
marching lockstep to winter.

Rather, a rebel's sauciness
before shortened days and north winds
bend her will.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Kaddish

The opioid crisis occupies much of the news these days, as well it should. Roughly, 64,000 people died because of opiates in 2016 here in the U.S. The number of deaths is shocking, and yet we remain  blasé about the 88,000 lives lost due to alcohol in that same time frame.

As with almost everything, statistics only hit home once they turn personal. And, yes, the individual in the following poem was a friend of mine.



Kaddish


Headstones worn soft
sit close together, tilting
a bit toward each other
like old folks gathered
in rockers.

Discussions of weather,
bits of gossip about visitors,
judgment of children
who come and those who don't
pass between them.

A midday funeral hushes all
as the hearse rolls past.
Out of the lead limo emerge
a silver-haired man and his wife,
puffiness around his eyes,
faltered steps as she turns.

News goes grave to grave:
the casket cradles the body
of their son sober, now,
for five years, three months
and fourteen days until yesterday's
freefall.

Down the rows the old ones
sigh while the earth splits in two.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Spooning

It has been an unexpectedly cool August here in the north country. Usually, the Dog Days of summer roam freely, dragging heat and humidity with them. But not this year. As I overheard someone say, "It's as if we lost a month of summer." And if nights are nippy here in the city, they turn downright brisk at the cabin.



Spooning


Mid-August up North
and fall already rides

the lopsided smile
of bodies curved

quilted skin to skin
suffusing night air

dreams, chilly enough.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Pilgrimage

Late August, and inland gulls already assemble in empty parking lots at daybreak. Their numbers increase weekly as the earth rotates toward the coming fall. This convergence of birds turns into a hypnotic spectacle as they swirl overhead, practicing for their long trek south.



Pilgrimage


Would I blaspheme
if I compared an autumn gathering of gulls
to a group bound for mecca?

Churning, turning like a fan
jubilant, orbiting, a pirouette, a shimmy.

White as the sky of dawn,
almost lost as they circle aloft
as if to prepare
for seven times 'round the Kaaba.

Mystical as a group of whirling dervishes
mesmerized with motion
about to start a second-sighted journey.

Standing at the periphery, I ponder why
I cannot soar even as they fly.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Aurora Borealis

Last weekend marked this summer's Perseid Meteor Shower at a time we would be at the cabin and away from city lights. A rare chance to witness wonders of the night sky.

I set my alarm for one hour before sunrise, the best time to view this phenomena, or so I read. But I failed to calculate the length of predawn brightness in the far north, and missed the show yet again.



Aurora Borealis


Once I saw
green lights shimmering
in the northern sky,
great swathes of color
moving to music
played light years away.
Thousands of street lamps
tried but couldn't hide
the exuberance overhead.

Now from a prime seat
in the dark north woods
I keep searching midnight
for these gossamer sheets,
rare as the solar flares
that send them dancing.

Meanwhile,
I settle for stars waltzing
through the Milky Way,
trace comets on the loose.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

The Accidental Coffin Maker

It's summer and that means more weekends spent up north at the cabin. The mosquito population is on the wane, though not as much as we would like, and the warm days mean more people on the lake, making for a livelier time. But lest I forget the permanent residents, below is a reminder of the characters that make up the year 'round population.



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

Dragonfly Season

Andrew, my significant Singaporean other, is not your typical north woods cabin owner. But he is well known to the locals, and despite a decade plus of ribbing, he revels in time spent there.



Dragonfly Season


At the lake I sleep with you, Andrew Hong,
an enigma in the far northern forests.

Your canoe comes with a motor,
skims across wave-washed smirks

that fade far from the shore
lapping at your dock, the only one

without lures or lines. Next door the shudder
of bearskin peeled from its ham-strung carcass

courses through your own taut muscles.
Chopsticks don't mix well with cheese dip

nor beer with your reluctance to drink
alcohol, and football remains forever foreign.

Shrugged shoulders and cock-eyed grins
cannot fathom why we're here

but the eagle nests above us
and the heron fishes from our pier.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Morning Sky

One perk to living ten stories up is the clear view of sunrise on the horizon, expressing varying colors on different days, under different conditions. On more than one occasion, I have witnessed the dawn paint glass buildings in magical, fleeting, ruddy hues.



Morning Sky


A carnelian dawn burnishes
the glass facade of a high-rise to ruby.
An enchanted canvas

until the sun bleaches
brazen wild-rose to coquettish pink
to the tedious translucency of Wednesday.

Kaleidoscopic shades
tucked away in pockets like talismans
by the new hire and corner office exec, alike.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Cool Front

Two weeks in equatorial heat begged for a north woods fix, and that's where we've been the past few days. The weather up there was beautiful but humid, initially. However, after visiting Singapore in July I will never again complain about any humidity we encounter here.



Cool Front


Steady enough
to nudge heavy air out of hushed pines,
                     dry yesterday's dish towel,
                          dispel my peevishness.

A breeze with aspirations
finally tousles treetops,
glad-hands boughs, negotiates a reprieve,
                     lets the wind chimes breathe.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

High School Reunion

Impressions of two weeks in Singapore: an island nation on the equator, a country of almost 6 million people, a land crowded with high rises, fantastic food, intense heat, high humidity, and, of course, Andrew's home.

A family reunion and the college graduation of his grandniece coaxed us to travel to the other side of the globe. What memories will endure with these fresh-faced young graduates? And what will they recall decades from now about their experiences?

Last summer I finally attended a high school reunion of my own, and it left me with these thoughts.



High School Reunion


Tonight everyone's an intimate: the Army
recruiter and the dissident, the accountant
and the artist.

Yet when did this classmate become
so rotund, that one so drawn?
And why did my own friends not attend?
Not interested or lingering adolescent angst?

Like memories of a carpool
that picked up my neighbor and left me
at the bus stop: nose buried in books,
feigning disdain, and no date for the dance.

Friendships with kindred spirits thwarted:
one lived across town, another belonged
to the opposite sex.
Significant roadblocks to teenage rapport.

Tonight without fallback confidants
I linger with others from classes past,
and find affinity.

The night's end underscores
"What might have beens," as promises
to "Keep in touch" drift
like casual motes on the evening air.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor