Monday, June 19, 2006

"Those Winter Sundays"

This was posted by Miss Snark, the Literary Agent:

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?

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At 7:10 AM, Blogger Badaunt said...

That is beautiful, and sad. And it reminds me of my own father, who was an early riser and always prepared breakfast and warmed the house and so on and then woke the rest of us up - and we never, ever, appreciated it.

(This comment has an impossibly long word verification, and I suspect I will be trying several times before I get it right. Has Blogger gone mad?)


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