In the course of a very busy life, I don't make much time for poems anymore. Nowadays, I find myself thinking of poems as a luxury reserved for the young, when one feels pain and joy most acutely. But it shouldn't be like that. So, in honor of National Poetry Month, I'll throw a poem out there and see if anyone else would like to chime in with a favorite of their own.
By way of introduction, I heard this poem on the radio and tracked it down via the Internet. It made a lovely Father's Day gift.
Those Winter Sundays
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 autere and lonely offices?