The sun angled down
That October way
And cries filled the air:
“It’s the final nice day!”
The season was autumn
A Thursday so bright
It felt like the summer
So sweet was the light.
“The final nice day!”
Came the blubber and sigh,
“We won’t see such weather
‘Til bleepin’ July.”
Some pundits and others
Stayed fuming indoors
Inventing their theories
And scratching their sores.
“Election Day’s coming!”
They snarled with a shout
“No time for a walk
No, no time to go out!
“No time for the sunshine!
No time for the breeze!
No time for the flutter
Of bright autumn trees!”
They punched at their keyboards
And sharpened their snark
To see who could make
The most cutting remark.
Meanwhile, on Thursday ...
The parents with strollers
Commuters on bikes
The kids on their scooters
The kids on their trikes
Were soaking up warmth
They were kicking up leaves
Like men on death row
With the hope of reprieves.
“The snow is a’coming!”
Old Tom Skilling said,
“Get ready for Tuesday!”
We shivered with dread.
But in this last moment
This last day of nice
When leaves paved the streets —
So much nicer than ice —
Folks went to the parks
And we went out on strolls
No time to spend fretting
O’er pols and their polls.
We’d think of Obama
And Romney real soon
And Ryan and Biden
And Trump, the big loon.
We’d think of Trump whining,
“I’ll tell you what sucks,
I still got no clout
Despite zillions of bucks.”
We’d talk of the turnout,
The margins, the lies
But here was our mellow
October surprise:
The doors were still open
The windows were, too
The AC was whirring
The garden still grew.
“The final nice day!”
Huffed the runners (no shirts!)
And in the soft breeze
Women clung to their skirts.
No day to be grousing
That politics stink
Or worry the nation
Was ready to sink.
One day very soon
We could quiver in fear
That Romney and Biden
Would rule us next year
Or fret for the future
(Things real and absurd)
And argue the wishes
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.
———
Mary Schmich is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune who can be contacted at mschmich@tribune.com
