Today I met a man who worked at Menard's and wants to build a future for himself.

I met a girl who draws fairies with pencil wings (because they are translucent) and a woman who is a master gardener who gripped a drift seed in her hand and believes in possibilities.

I found a friend I'd made last year who told me the poem I wrote about her sister is framed on a wall in her house. Her earliest memory is a field of wild flowers.

I celebrated an 88th birthday and a 2nd birthday and both moved me to tears.  I wrote poems for children, and startled the parents when I asked, "What words of advice do you want to give your child?" They shushed their children who say, "Oh, I know! I need to focus" or "Do your chores!"

Every parent says the same thing: be happy...stay true to you...be kind. 

And although the day was lovely, my favorite moment today involved a ten year-old kid.

He likes to draw. One time he drew a King Cobra, but he lost it somewhere. I wrote him a poem. He liked it. He told me his aunt was braiding hair at the event. He brought me her card since I couldn't leave my table to get my hair braided. And he tipped me a dollar.

He came back by later and said his mom wanted a poem. I asked him if she was going to swing by, but his mom wasn't at the event. We decided to work on a poem for her. Turns out his mom is nice, caring, and does nice things for him. I asked him what he would give her, you know, if anything was possible.

Since her favorite color is red, he wants to give her a big red house with wide windows and a big back yard with a homemade pond and a hammock. He wants to get her toe nails and fingernails painted--red, of course, only with glittery sparkles too, He wants her to have a shopping spree and go out for ice cream (butter pecan, he thinks) and drive a red Mustang. He told me she gets lonely when he's visiting dad, so he wants her not lonely. We planned a great day for her, and we turned her great day into a poem.

He came back with a fistful of dollar bills. I said, "Seriously?" He said, "It's a good poem!" and stuffed them in my tip jar.  When the event ended, he made sure to swing back by and gave me a hug. I'm the luckiest person on the planet, just in case you didn't already know.

I love that kid. He'd better come back to the 2020 Oswego Literary Festival. And next time he needs to bring his mom.  I hope her nails are red.

Do something that scares you a little, they say. Get outside your comfort zone.

I met a man who read only Westerns whose father retired from ranching and never took him camping. I wrote a poem for a woman who grew up by The Hundred Acres Wood, a young penny finder, a couple who fell in love at first sight, and a woman with a secret I will never share.

At Chicago's Printers Row, I wrote poems for people I met on the street. In the moment. No prep. Three minutes. It might be genius. It might not. (If you know a writer, you know how terrifying this is.) The last time I wrote 18 poems in 4 hours. Today my companion and I wrote more than 40 poems.

Tell me a story. I'll write you a poem.