Poem:
"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden (Kennedy pp. 779)
Paraphrase:
Even on Sunday, the day of rest, “father got up early”(779). The air was so cold is can only be described as “blueblack”(779). Father’s hands were intensely worn from working outdoors; it was a thankless job. The crackling fire indicated that the cold was turning to warmth. This was the prelude to being summoned out of the warmth of the bed; apprehensively getting dressed to face another day of endless madness. Don’t dare mutter a word of complaint, and be grateful for how father’s love is demonstrated, no matter the form.
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