and Father's Day
Dawned gray ... but the promise is for sun
A poem that I love:
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,
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?
There is no day set aside for "Steps" ...
There yet lives a man who agreed to
become step-father to two young boys in
need. His name is Tom Welsh.
We took his name, my brother and I.
Even though he and my mother divorced,
he never stopped being our "Dad."
All these years later, even though he has
another family, to include four children of his own,
I still consider him to be my Dad.
Happy Father's Day ... Dad.
Tom Welsh with his daughter, Karen - ca. 2012