Here is a very good poem by Robert Hayden I wish I'd written.
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?
Click on the title to go to poetryfoundation.org's posting of Those Winter Sundays, where you can hear Mr. Hayden read this poem. Click on the poet's name to learn more about Robert Hayden.
