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?
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Comments5WOW THIS POEM REALLY GOT ME THINKING ABOUT HOW WE DON'T APPRECIATE OUR PARENTS ENOUGH. SO EMOTIONAL 🙁
WOW! THIS REALLY MADE ME THINK ABOUT MY OWN DAD... HOW MUCH WE TEND TO TAKE FOR GRANTED. I WONDER WHAT THE POEM MEANS BY "LOVE'S AUSTERE AND LONELY OFFICES"? ANYBODY KNOW?
Wow just read a poem that gets real deep. Made me reflect how much my Dad did for me as a child that I never realised. Man, the sacrifices parents make...hits you right in the feels.
honestly, this pome made me think a lot about all the stuff my pops does for me. no thx from me ever, i guess. "who had driven out the cold" hit me the hardest. why's the house always angry tho?
A mournful poem in realizing, after a person is gone, the sacrifices they made that never were acknowledged.