Father

Nailheads broke off with the sound
of rifle shots, blizzard winds
shook the house, snug as squirrels
we burrowed in our quilts
until morning came.

The upstairs an Arctic cave,
a floor of ice, but Father
braved it and we heard him downstairs
shake the hard-coal stove
until all its isinglass eyes
glowed red, the low roar
of a bucket of coal poured
in its mouth.

When he called, ‘‘You can come now,’’
we scuttled downstairs to dress
in the lovely warmth.

But no one ever said, thank you,
or praised him, or simply,
we love you.