Those Winter Sunday's
I found a poem I would like to share. It is called 'Those Winter Sunday's' by Robert Hayden. I chose to use this poem with the photos below as I feel they fit where the story is coming from.
Sunday's too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blue-black 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,
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,
driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’sand lonely offices?