Those Winter SundaysRobert Hayden, 1913 - 1980Sundays toomy father got up earlyand put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked 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 coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I knowof love’s austere and lonely offices?The Mother is never mentioned in this poemHis dad may have died which is why he may have written the story
1)Who is speaking in the poem? Are they a grown-up or a child? How can you tell?