“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.
xxx
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,
xxx
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?
x
xxxxxxxxx
Robert Hayden, “Those Winter Sundays” from Collected Poems of Robert Hayden, edited by Frederick Glaysher. Copyright ©1966 by Robert Hayden.
This entry was posted in family, poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to “Those winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden

  1. Jerome Bloom says:

    HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM…………………

    NO FIRE TO BANKBACK

    ONLY

    DIGITALTHERMOSTAT

    TO CHECK

    CRACKEDHANDS

    GRUMPY BODY

    TODRESS

    COFFEE

    TOMAKE

    HONEY

    TOWAKE

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