Those Winter Sundays

Written by Mr. Fasano on October 21, 2008 – 10:23 pm -


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?


Posted in Poetry |


One Response to “Those Winter Sundays”

  1. By Rethabile on Oct 23, 2008 | Reply

    Magnificent and sober poem. This, and Frederick Douglass, must surely be among Mr Hayden’s best.

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