hayden poem - 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

hayden poem - Those Winter Sundays Sundays too my father...

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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,
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  • Fall '15
  • English-language films, Hip hop music, The Chronic, Robert Hayden, Winter Sundays

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