The attic smelled like dust and boards
And summers shut behind old doors.
A baby bed, a picture frame,
A trunk with no one’s written name.
A hat with netting, one old shoe,
A lamp with one thing broken through,
A rocking horse with one bad eye,
A stack of magazines gone dry.
The sun came in a narrow way
And made the dust look full of play.
It danced up there in stripes of gold
On every crate and quilt and fold.
I always felt when I climbed high
The room had kept a piece of time.
Not dead, not gone, not put away,
Just waiting out another day.
And if I stood and did not talk,
And tried to hush my feet and walk,
It seemed the attic might begin
To tell me who had once been in.