The Crimson Moon

Almost twenty years ago, I looked south from this same spot,
at a sky filled with the scar of a senseless tragedy,
a horrific reminder of our failings as a species. Now,
the signs of a different type of tragedy call out to us,
if we’re only willing to hear.

A crimson moon pokes through a murky but cloudless sky,
the lights of the city muted, further landmarks erased from view,
the air tinged with the faint scent of distant conflagrations.

3000 miles from here, the world is on fire,
and we cannot ignore the message
that this smoke has traveled so far to tell us:
once again, we have brought catastrophe upon ourselves,
on our brothers and our sisters,
and we can no longer afford the luxury
of pretending we don’t see.