The Land of the Rising Sun

We traveled to Japan last year, and I didn't recognize how lucky we were to see Mt. Fuji on a bright, beautiful day. Nor did I realize that it rained there as much as it did in England.

The Land of the Rising Sun

Mountains, rain and bullet trains sketch

the landscape of Japan.

In and out of tunnels - light, dark,

light - like taking turns at a game

of Blind Man's Bluff.

Mt. Fuji, capped in opals and pearls

for most of the year, shakes off winter,

emerges the color of cognac in summer.

The massif dominated as envisioned:

snow-crowned and silhouetted

against an abandoned cerulean sky.

I didn't recognize my good fortune

as moisture commonly veils the top.

A weather hint, if I'd paid attention:

the numerous parasols to use by every

merchant's door.

But the Japanese never insist. To impose

is impolite, and an umbrella remains

a suggestion even in downpours.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Unnerving

We spent the last week at the cabin and I heard the most terrifying noise. As a matter of fact, it continues to haunt me, and deserves a repeat of my original poem.

Unnerving

Dawn spreads like a freshly

cracked egg over the rim of the world.

A red-bellied woodpecker tattoos

a tired oak, a pair of trumpeter swans

                                          pulsate contentment

and the surreal calls of loons croon.

Above all this

                             the wailing cry

                                                           of a siren

sends shivers pulsing. From my days in the ER

          too many minutes choke the clock

             in the wake of a rural calamity.

That wavering hum,

                        the deadliest sound in the forest.

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor