GOOD MORNING, CLASS OF '64
Rain replaces snow this good, Sunday morning. A green patch in the yard grows wider and touches a narrow snow strip that curves like a river into the woods. Dingy, rain packed snow, mounded at the curb, is an over sized snow cone. The roofs are bare. And, finally, no snow fills the corners of the porch. January snow will soon be gone but February snow will come.
Those Winter Sundaysby 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?- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19217#sthash.Xt