It was a beautifully rainy, grey, and quiet weekend full of catching up on things unfinished. Take a moment to nod to one of the Masters. Pour one out for his soul, which has entered the great creative ether we all have access to if we only put our feelers out.
One week ago, his body passed. One week ago we lost a hero. One week ago, we remembered his stories. Let us not forget the things he taught us of the future. For the future’s sake. He was 91, but his words are forever. Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. Rest in Peace. I hope one day your bones rest in the Iron Soil of Mars, where they belong.
From Sara Teasdale
“There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.”
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