Those Winter Sundays
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 knowof love’s austere and lonely offices?
HT: Poetry Foundation
Not winter, but this poem makes me think of my Dad, shaking down the coal stove at 4 in the morning, then coming in to kiss my cheek before he left for work. Happy Father's Day!