Guest poem sent in by Aamir Ansari
(Poem #975) Those Winter Sundays
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?
I came across this poem in an anthology I'd bought at a flea market. I was touched by its heartfelt admission of the deep regret that follows youth as insight develops with the passage of time. The insistent reproach ("What did I know, what did I know/ of love's austere and lonely offices) makes it particularly heart-breaking. A haunting poem, not easily forgotten. Aamir Links: Biography of Hayden: [broken link] http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=200