"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.
This poem is so beautiful, in that it makes me realize the simple things of day to day life a father does out of love and devotion for a child that go unnoticed and unappreciated at the time. The last line especially resonates with me....as youngsters there is so little we know and comprehend about what love truly means and demands of us and how it can often be a "lonely" place.