Question

Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I would wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he would call,
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 loves austere and lonely offices?

Which best describes the poetic form of "Those Winter Sundays"?
A. Balad
B. Lyric
C. Sonnet
D. Free reverse