Victorian Lady

I confess. I was out of town for an extended Thanksgiving Holiday in northern California. Even with the population density around San Francisco you don't have to travel far to find rugged, tree filled terrain. The height of the redwoods remains forever astonishing to me as does the pounding Pacific Ocean far below wooded hills along the coastline.

Closer to home there stands a tree in my old neighborhood that routinely catches my attention but for entirely different reasons.



Victorian Lady


Hewn from a hundred year oak
she stands impossibly elegant,
carved from the trunk of a tree
firmly grounded in the present.

Poised in bustling skirts
and commanding hat, she carries
a parasol fully open but lowered
as if lingering, listening to echoes
with head turned and chin tilted.

Her stance suggests
a resigned waiting for someone
who disappeared down the streets
of a different century.

But hers is a tight-lipped demeanor,
an unhappy tree spirit caught out.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Precipice

Cold weather finally caught up with us two days ago. Yesterday's stiff breezes brought biting wind chills in the teens. A shocking difference from the 60 degree highs that dominated the past week.

Even as late as Thursday morning a flock of inland gulls continued to gather at dawn and leisurely ride the air currents. Circling, gliding, they reveled on the warmth of an extended autumn. Had they been paying attention, perhaps their departure wouldn't have been so hasty.



Precipice


A gathering of gulls
wheels, luxuriates in thermal edges.

But lengthening shadows
cut short the light, and the egrets have fled.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Too Far North

Sixteen years ago Andrew bought a cabin in far northern Wisconsin. Being a native of Singapore, he held no preconceived ideas about what "cabin life" should look like. He had never heard of septic systems or well-water. Couldn't understand why people scoffed when he placed a trolling motor on his canoe. Then one day he decided to plant a fruit tree in a climate where they generally don't do well.

The crabapple thrived. In springtime its blossoms of deep pink surrounded by a forest of evergreens makes it the most stunning planting on the lake for a brief few days. But that was not the main reason for his foray into horticulture.



Too Far North


September roots of a young crabapple
grapple with dirt and the mirth of woodsmen.
"Deer will make lunch of its trunk,"
they chuckle, "or winter will break its back."

The newcomer nods, continues to shovel,
city-hands freshly calloused.

Late May a raiment of rouge
debuts in the pines, quiets the naysayers.

By summer, berry-sized apples produce grins
again from locals. "We told you
no good eatin' could come from that tree."
But woodpeckers and grosbeaks disagree.

Behind autumn binoculars the rookie smiles,
"Bird-Friendly Plantings" dog-eared on a catalog pile.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Longest Growing Season on Record

This past week has been impossibly warm with temps running 15 to 20 degrees above normal. Daytime highs have topped out in the upper 60s and yesterday a record set at 73 in November, in Minneapolis. Had this extended warmth been a one-off occurrence I wouldn't be as concerned, but I fear this is the new normal as each autumn grows longer and milder. There remains a niggling worry in the back of my brain about the future and climate change.

By the way, if we don't dip below freezing at least once in the next four days, and no forecasts predict that, another record will be shattered: the longest growing season on record this far north.



Longest Growing Season on Record


Ginkgo gold a dull mustard,
sugar maples babushka dowdy,
and yet they linger.

Weather reporters channel
Bobby McFerrin, "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
Predict an abbreviated winter.

On the map a high-riding ridge of warmth,
no mention of mittens, no talk of cold fronts.

Precipitation? A slight chance of rain
so keep the umbrella handy, put away the ski wax.
Plenty of time left to dine al fresco.

And the elephant in the room eyes the spin masters.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Royalties

Clouds and intermittent rain showers have dogged us this past week, damping the beauty of autumn. Still, when I turn a corner and drive down a block of red maples, I can't help but think "fantabulous!" Of all the color changes in fall, it is the scarlet leaves I love the most.

I once lived where these trees dominated my yard, suffusing my kitchen with a rosy hue for two or three weeks each October. And I marveled daily to see them.



Royalties


My backyard is not filled
With the shifting gold
Of coins or cottonwoods
Nor does the bright
Yellow gingko drop.

The scarlet cloak
Of a Crimson King maple
Lies folded ankle deep
In chocolate tipped cherries
Ruby slippers and port wine.

Luxury.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Taxing Situation

This week's excuse for being late falls under travel. I spent an extended weekend with my son and his family in Indiana. He and his wife are committed Fit Bit wearers, striving for 10,000 steps on a daily basis and, more days than not, achieving their goal. It has become part of their routine, and being a walker myself, I felt right at home.

There is a difference in neighborhoods, however.  I live in a high-rise on the divide between a busy commercial district and acres of city park, preceding a residential area. I've walked both, but it isn't hard to determine which way I usually turn when I reach the corner.



A Taxing Situation


In between
a crisscross road six lanes deep
and close to city hall
live reconfigured lights,
pedestrian friendly stripes.

But cars continue to muscle through
and vehicles still rule
in a dicey game of dodge 'em.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Fifteen Seconds of Fame

I love the play of sunlight on partly cloudy days. The way it randomly hot lights an object, a towering glass building, a tableau of trees, a distant church spire, against a backdrop of dark clouds. Ephemeral, magical, and impossible to capture on film, at least with my humble camera. The experience intensified by autumn's colors and the transience of the moment.



Fifteen Seconds of Fame


On a gray October morning
with northwest winds shifting
the contours of the sky
the east sun emerges
through an aperture in the clouds
and spotlights a yellow drenched
elm for a fleeting few seconds
before the cover closes
and the leaves fade to fools gold.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

A Little Off the Sides

How I know autumn has arrived: the shortened day length, a frost not that far north of us, the orange/gold/red of the leaves, the Twin Cities Marathon, the Apple Fest at Bayfield. On our way to the cabin last weekend I also noticed fields of soybeans now like bright yellow coverlets flung across the land, and more than one farmer harvesting a corn crop.



A Little Off the Sides


The tractor lumbers
down an arrow straight row,
corn spitting from picker
into the open bed of a truck.

Behind them they leave
the earth looking like
an upswept Mohawk:
blonde stalks next to stubble
with roots of dark brown.

I know this. Just yesterday
I saw it on a boy's head back in town.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Campaign 2016

Yes, we traveled north again, spending time at the cabin. A welcome break from all the political hype which only intensifies as the election looms closer. I admit I watched the first debate between the presidential candidates, but the substance and rhetoric underwhelmed me. It seemed to be only more of the same. I doubt if I will tune in future debates.

The peace and quiet of the cabin, on the other hand, was a delight. I am so thankful that retreat exists.



Campaign 2016


Pushed into the political funhouse
without a way to dodge

d I s tor T e D mirrors of half-truths

Twitter BLASTS of hot air

a revolving barrel of he said/she saids

undulating            of negative
               walkways                ads

and a two-story
                        slide of
                                     innuendoes

I search for the exit sign
spot it blinking dimly,  w_e_e_k_s  away.

The clamor of glad-handing clowns
swallowing my sigh.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

And That Worries Me

The past few Septembers have felt more like the waning days of August with highs in the 70s, sometimes more. Very few Canadian cool fronts have blown through, reminding us of the change of season, that the Autumnal Equinox has already come and gone.

I suspect this is the new normal, and should probably enjoy the lingering warmth since winter waits just around the corner. Instead, this weather makes me somewhat uneasy. Not unlike dancing on the Cliffs of Moher.



And That Worries Me


Toxic Algae Warning signs
sprouted around a city lake just today.

An upshot of flawless lawns,
fertilizer run-off, and warming summers.

But young boys no longer fish the rickety pier,
and no one wishes to swim slime-green waters

except the ducks and they can't read.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Who Will Note

Earlier this summer I traveled back to my hometown in South Dakota. My father came from a farm family of twelve siblings, and many a summer as a child I spent time on that farm with my Aunt and Uncles. None of the three married and all remained to work the land. Theirs was not an easy life but I always eagerly looked forward to spending time in the country with them. The days there were filled with freedom to roam and bounded by their love.



Who Will Note


two brothers and a sister
who farmed the 20th century in eastern Dakota?
Their dry-land crops and skinny livestock?
The Dust Bowl dirt that sifted over
their own childhoods?
The grasshoppers that once ate skivvies
and everything else off laundry lines?
The hollyhocks climbing a rickety trellis,
the tire swing in the side yard?
The tornado that repositioned their barn?
The rosaries prayed during fierce storms
on the midnight Plains?
The fat years with bumper yields of corn?
The annual table full of threshers
downing chicken and gravy, pies and coffee?
The small town bartending job worked weekends
when summer hail shredded the fields?
The pint of whiskey stashed in a bureau drawer?
The Sunday dinners crowded with siblings
and their offspring now moved to the city?

No prodigy of their own
nor flashy heroic deeds claim them.
Only their photos, fading in shoeboxes
of scattered nieces and nephews,
and three simple tombstones, side-by-side,
starting to list in a country graveyard
mark their presence on the prairie.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Photo Finish

The cool nights of autumn have definitely arrived and, for whatever reason, I find myself thinking of the past. Maybe it's the fleet of yellow school buses or the excitement of a new school year for so many kids. But mostly, I think, it's because my brother died a few Septembers ago. Whenever I see fields of soybeans turning yellow prior to harvest, I am reminded of him.

I have a photo of Steve taken a couple of months before he passed away, and it haunts me still. In my version of a perfect world that last image of him simply doesn't fit.



Photo Finish


I possess a picture of my brother
too painful to place in an album:

a once full face
now like an apple doll's,
collapsed inward

a weary smile
to oblige the photographer

a winter sweatshirt
worn over faded blue jeans
in mid-July heat.

Not wanting to stash it away
nor willing to expose it

I slipped it back into its envelope
and kept it on my table
as if Snapfish could refinish the photo,
recover a healthy image,
stem the flood threatening my eyes.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Videos

Back to the north woods for an extended weekend. It's good to get away from the electronic world for a while: no TV, no internet connection. The only video we watched, all of three or four minutes, came from a trail camera in the forest and a little gizmo set up in the cabin while we were away. You never know what you might see when it's played back.

The weather proved perfect, sunny and 70s in the daytime, thundershowers at night. OK, maybe too much with the rain. An inch and an half Sunday followed by three inches Monday night, making for a humid and soggy Tuesday morning. And the lake level keeps inching higher.



Videos


From a game camera fixed to a fir:
an image of you, checking the lens,
nary a bear or deer,
not even a flock of turkeys.

But from the pocket-promo inside:
daddy-long-legs sauntering away,
Asian beetles monstrous as sci-fi bugs,
creeping closer, body-blocking the aperture.

You don't hunt. I don't wish to watch
insects cavort on the counter. And the awe
from real time wildlife overshadows
any found on film.

The marketers had you clearly in their sights.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

 

Target Bargains - $9.99

I recently returned from London, spending time with my daughter and her family. I couldn't help but notice the new pair of flip-flops she sported, breezily covered in summertime polka dots.

It took me back ten years to when I fell in love with something similar. Though I wore through them in only one season, they always brought a smile to my face when I slipped them on. Enough for me to pen a poem about this happy-go-lucky footwear. As can be plainly seen, the cost of living was a teensy bit less back then.



Target Bargains - $9.99


Nine ninety-nine at Target
For a tank-top and black flip-flops
With rainbow colored polka dots.

A handful of coins
For a sack full of sunshine
Hip-hop and soda pop
All for nine ninety-nine.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor