Mick reads a poem about his favorite day.

My Favorite Day

by Mick Theebs

Pollen floats through the air
turning a verdant resting place into
a hellscape full of pitchfork wielding
bumble bees and stuffed sinuses.
Life stirs in the womb
of the earth.
Those short cold days of
quickening long behind them,
as the sun decides to show
its face around these parts again
unashamed, though prodigal for
having abandoned us to face
the frigid slings and arrows of
the season alone.
This is the season of
our content,
the triumphant return
against all odds as
the very planet itself
turns the other cheek toward
better days and warmer nights
chasing away Winter’s wraiths
with piercing bolts of
pure sunlight.
The wheel turns without cease,
as steady as the tide,
the cycle restarts, again complete,
that unending march of time.