The poem in the previous post, Men At Forty, beautifully echoes the way my thoughts turn often to my Father. There is so much regarding our parents that simply cannot be understood until one suspects that many of life’s rooms have been left for the last time. Until then, ‘what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?’
Here is another poem that reminds me of my Dad. What undeserved blessings to have a Dad (and Mom) who so accurately reminds his children of their heavenly Father! Glory to you Lord Christ and thank you, Dad.
Those Winter Sundays
BY ROBERT HAYDEN
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 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?
Again HT: James KA Smith