Winter

 

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden 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?
[Excerpt from Collected Poems of Robert Hayden, edited by Frederick Glaysher.]
125734 PHOTO: Eugenia Falls 2006 - remnants of an old settlement, now gone.