Those Winter Sunday'sby Robert HaydenSundays 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 austere and lonely offices? Paul Guest is one of my favorite poets maybe because of the imagery this line evokes 'Lorded over by seraphim in shabby pajama's'. He has a new book out that Olivia Cronk reviewed.
She Must Be From Another Country
Zeros To Heros
- 530 hits
Quote For This Week“Make friends with the angels, who though invisible are always with you. Often invoke them, constantly praise them, and make good use of their help and assistance in all your temporal and spiritual affairs.” - Francis de Sales.