Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback 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?
Robert Hayden, 1962
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2 comments:
I think that most of us go between regressing into adolescence and trying to compensate by being their most adult selves. Parental visits destabilize the most centered of souls.
Hope you have a lovely visit and are able to be the self that you want to be.
Love this poem SO MUCH. It has long been a favorite.
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