by Marjorir Wilson
The little things that happen
Are tucked into your mind,
And come again to greet you
(Or most of them, you'll find).
Through many little doorways
Of which you keep the keys,
They crowd into your thinking-
We call them Memories.
But some of them are rovers
Ans wander off and get
So lost, the keys grow rusty
And that means - you forget.
But some stay ever near you;
You'll find they never rove.
The keys are always shining-
Those are the things you love.
