In late afternoon, I took out binoculars and a sheet of paper.
Keeping one barrel capped. I held the binocs high
to focus the sun’s rays through the wider lens,
projecting a jumpy white image on the sheet.
Because the dime-sized sun on paper blazed so intensely
it left an after-circle as though I’d stared into actual sun,
I felt satisfied, even elated at having seen in the pinprick
on its lower arc a true image of Venus in transit,
a sight not to be repeated for anyone now living.

Ray Bradbury, that same evening your starship flew.
As tiny Venus pressed on, black spot on the molten sun-apple,
your life’s planet made its final trek into the wilderness of light.
Were you conscious of that rarest of spectacles for sky-watchers?
Was your wonder still alive to that rendezvous?
The bonds of gravity loosened, you crossed to the Forever
you dreamt of in your stories, each a prayer for life, more life!
Fitting that you should leave on that day of great passage,
another whose likes we’ll not see again on this earth.