In a still dark and frigid room-
awakening those mornings-
to the ash grate being shook down-
and the smell of wafting coal smoke-
coal smoke that would inevitably escape
as dad added fresh coal-
making a banked fire blaze.

Dad would arise to a cold house-
before daylight-
to perform these chores-
the rest of us would arise to a warm house-
no one ever thanked him-
dreading the impositions of a new day-
greeting indifferently the one
that had expelled the cold.

Just one of many slights to other labors-
labors known now to be of love.
but what did I know then about love-
what then did I know about sacrifice-
of love’s lonely abode?