Poetry. I’m in awe of poetry. The gorgeous balance of word, thought, and feeling, all put together into a small package. I wish I could write books the way poets write stanzas. This is a beauty…



Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blue black 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?


Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Ah, to dream.




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