The Other Night Before

As those of various faiths, and none at all, celebrate the holiday season, it is well to hear again the voice of the Anonymous Poet, he who has known and/or read of sobering wars, including Civil and European bloodbaths. Perpetual war. Perpetual hate. Books that barely penetrate. He is a tough old master, our Mr. Time, and the only god he knows; Yet, he has a quiet patient pride that prevents his even saying so, The same that's often only circumspect when lonely man slays lonely man, Same that maps anew, age by age, again to trod the perishable roads. Tonight I hear him outside chilling in the snow and freezing rain, A smallish wisp, in an old green slicker, a hard blown pulled-down hat; The ephemeral shape, I see it slipping in its fine brown leather boots, But braced on a centuries ol…