THE CALENDAR IN THE ATTIC

I wonder how long it has been

Since this old calendar hung here,

With my birthday date upon it,

Nothing else — not a word of writing —

Not a mark of any hand.

Perhaps it was my father

Who left it thus

For me to see.

Perhaps my mother

Smiled as she saw it;

But in later years did not smile.

If I could tear it down,

From the wall

Somehow

I would be content.

But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it.