icon caret-left icon caret-right instagram pinterest linkedin facebook twitter goodreads question-circle facebook circle twitter circle linkedin circle instagram circle goodreads circle pinterest circle


For Ray Bradbury



A young boy looked up into the night sky

searching the blackness for the meaning of it all,

longing for the call from the magical mistress

of all things sacred and noble

to set him upon the path to become

a storyteller for the ages.

He had a sense of wonder and a zest for life

not yet (and never to be) extinguished, and

he held his heart open to the gods

and waited.


She shot across the heavens,

a vision from the past and

an oracle of the future,

a fire-hot projectile

with enough fuel to propel her to the end of time,

and a long, glowing, and flowing tail

to light the way for all.


He gazed in amazement and

considered the spectacle.

What was it?

Who was it?

Did you see it?

Did you feel the warmth, the majesty?


He could not hear it, for it was silenced by distance,

but oh, did it make a sound.

He could not touch it, and yet,

it left an overpowering impression.


The boy watched and listened intently,

and took heart.

His decision was made.

He jumped on for the ride and never looked back.


Together as one they traveled into the future,

a celestial object made from the

dust of the stars and the love of the gods,

their measure and strength growing along the way,

fed by everything they touched.


He was instantly aged but ageless, timed but timeless.

His was an eccentric orbit on a determined course.

I could see the arc of his path clearly and

knew at once that the mystery and the magic,

the stories and the love, would never end.


The brilliant light traveled across the galaxy and

left in its path only love and insight and inspiration,

surely enough for mere mortals to build a life upon.

Surely enough for me.


I watched the blazing light streak across the sky

for as long as he would allow me.

I ached to follow his travels,

wished to garner some of the passion he held

for life and for words.


As I pass through what remains of

the radiant, cosmic particles left in his wake,

I take comfort in knowing that the pixie dust is

strewn far and wide, and I can only

hope that the light never dies.

I know that someday he will return, that

he will come back for all the world to see.

Maybe not within this lifetime, but sometime . . .