An ode to one fine day

Of God and Big Bird.

But not when the ginkgos

Still glittered like gold

No, not till the weather

Turned bitter and cold.


In other words, Friday.


"There's thunderstorms coming,"

Old Tom Skilling said,

"The temps will soon drop

And your garden's soon dead."


'Twas nice while it lasted

The final nice day

But here's one last thing

That my mother would say:


No matter the weather

Or winner we know:

That every day's nice

If you say that it's so.