Richard Schnap- A Poem

SINS OF THE FATHERS

I remember he never
Would say that he loved me
Reserving his passion
For precious antiques

To furnish his house
In rooms no one entered
That always felt frigid
As if made of ice

And when he was buried
A week before Christmas
It somehow seemed fitting
That it started to snow

But now every winter
Seems colder than the last
As I hide within shadows
Frozen to myself