touch stones

she throws nothing away.
her third grade
valentines are in
a box at arms reach.
that riding crop,
a book on planting seeds.
the shoes she ran
a race in two hundred
miles ago. these are
touch stones.
necessary to keep
her heart and mind
linked to the memories
of her life. she's no
different than me,
i see, as i stare at a closet
full of shirts and shoes
and things i'll
never wear or need.