For Ray Bradbury
Your prehistoric typewriter fell quiet,
Dropped to repose with grinning fossil teeth
And etched itself into the stones of time.
Yours was the magic hand that made it roar
And rend the sable night with sounds of thunder,
Vibrant with the wonder of the words.
The words have ceased; the echoes never will.
Dream-wanderer among the icy stars,
You died as Venus transited the sun,
Much as you carved your own elliptic path
Across the pumpkin visage of the world,
A ghostly smile traced on eternity.
You've journeyed to October Country now,
Where whispering shadows gather you to rest.
--Donald R. Burleson
8 June 2012