Those Winter Sundays chords by Ronald Shannon Jackson
Verse 1
G
Am
G
Sundays, too, my father got up early
and put his clothes on
F#
in the blue -black cold.
G
Then, with cracked hands that
ached from labor
in the weekday weather,
C
G
made banked fires blaze.
No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold
splintering breaking.
A
When the rooms were warm, he'd call.
G
G
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
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?
Those Winter Sundays
Ronald Shannon Jackson
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