I wrote this in the days after I received news of Anne McCaffrey’s death. I’m not a fan of poetry, to read or write, but I was so struck by grief to lose my childhood idol I could find no other way to get through it. She often introduced her chapters in the Pern books with verses, so it seemed appropriate, in a way. The Holds are quiet; the Halls have dimmed. The Weyrs are grieving; their banners trimmed. Drums are covered, pipes laid down; a dark day passes without renown. Holders raise a glass and take a moment or two, give thanks, rejoice, remember the words that made you true. You shall live on, and over again, your stories oft retold, your sickness and defeats, and conquests bright and bold. Harpers sing a soulful tune, Weavers thread her story, Miners and Smiths take up your crafts in homage to her glory. By thread or hide or smelted steel, your grit, your blood, your sweat; give praise to she who wrote you, for Pern must not forget. Weyrfolk lament, your dragons too. A moment of reverence is asked of you. Gold and bronze, brown, blue, and green, take flight, give…