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?
reflection: the reason I chose this piece is because, I want to recognize all the hard work that my parents do, that goes unnoticed. This poem highlights the hard work that my parents do while I’m sleeping or not at home, by describing how the father get up early on the weekends, with his aching hands and determination to provide his son with the best life possible. I hope to inspire the class to recognize their parents as well.