Love's Austere and Lonely Offices

"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden, is a poem I find almost unbearably poignant and been reflecting on why...

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labour in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
...
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?

I think it's the lack of gratitude for someone's faithful and silent sacrifice. How do we serve our children without them taking it for granted until it's too late to thank us? And how grateful am I for all I receive, day after day? The sun that comes up every single day, whether I see it or not; books that broaden my boundaries and that I've had access to all my life; a husband who makes sourdough for our daily bread...

The weather continues - we actually had a hailstorm today.