One In A Million

I remember when you turned and smiled at me once.

Everything sort of turned with you like watching an afternoon season evening.

And so it seemed that everything good about that plain moment was being made into something better

like the last of a poor mans flour becoming a fried biscuit or summer dried daisies being twisted into a fall wreath.

I’ve seen used cornstalks and kite string make a scarecrow.

I’ve seen a man used up in day become full again for his daughter.

This is what the memory feels like.

- for whom it may concern