Those Cold Winter Mornings

Those Cold Winter Mornings

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  • Brrr... I'm going back to bed
  • Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
  • *sigh*
  • then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
  • Good morning!
  • Hey
  • 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? –
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