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.