Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

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 austere and lonely offices? 

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The reason I picked to post this poem is because I love the rich imagery that Hayden incorporated in this poem. Every word was chosen deliberately and has some deeper connotation. For example, 'blueblack cold' can remind us of bruises, rather than just a color.