Mystic Musings: What is it?

Those Winter Sundays Robert Hayden (1913-1990)

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 cronic 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?

Mystic Musings

Monday, August 31, 2009

What is it?

Those Winter Sundays Robert Hayden (1913-1990)

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