Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Beautiful sentiments on a father.
That is really good, thank you so much for sharing it. Regardless whether it be father, mother, sibling, friend, partner…it is so easy to look past the acts of love that others commit on our behalf.
Beautiful – thanks for sharing!
Love is shown in the small things done on a daily basis. Lovely poem and tribute to a parent.
That is really beautiful