The Call

Sunday mornings spoke long and early,

the blueblack cold imperceptibly thinned

by the labor of his weekdays. Though the air

thanked him, the home was indifferent to love.

-

With cracked hands, my father blazed fires,

splintering the freeze. His call would rise,

breaking past angers inside the stairs; the rooms

drove out austere loneliness—a moment.

-

He ached from wintry work. As fireplaces roared,

chronic dawns whispered to him. Sundays

chatted most, the leisure of a man who had chased

away death.

-

I never heard the words. The call

arrived at my door void of preamble.

I never hugged the ghost of that

unforgiving house.

*   *   *

Thank you for reading! This is part of a series of poetic emulations, where I take a poem I love and either write an answer, a continuation, or something new inspired by it.