I have been thinking of my Dad so much lately. Today he consumed almost every thought. He is doing well and should be going home in the next day or two. I just wanted him to know how appreciated he is. In my English class, we have been reading a lot of poems and short stories. I have NEVER had something affect me as much as this poem has.
Those Winter Sundays
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 poem.
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