My dad was born in 1929. His entire life, he said very little, at least in words. When it came to actions though, he spoke so, so loudly. I've been missing him all day.
Sundays too my father got up early
and put on his clothes in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
You can read the rest of the poem here.