Good morning digital neighbors, as we honor Memorial Day and all of our Beloved Dead this seems to be a fitting remembrance for them. Grok gave me some history on the poem:

"In Flanders Fields" is one of the most famous war poems ever written, composed by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae during the First World War. It has become a cornerstone of remembrance traditions, especially linked to Memorial Day and Veterans Day in the U.S., Remembrance Day in Commonwealth countries, and the red poppy as a symbol of sacrifice.

The Historical Context
The poem emerged from the brutal Second Battle of Ypres (April–May 1915) in Belgium. This was the first major battle where the Germans used chlorine gas on a large scale, causing horrific casualties. The area, known as Flanders, saw intense fighting with heavy losses for Allied forces, including Canadian troops.

John McCrae, a Canadian physician, poet, and artillery officer-turned-field surgeon, served on the front lines treating the wounded under terrible conditions. He had prior military experience from the Boer War in South Africa

On May 2, 1915, McCrae's close friend and former student, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed by an artillery shell. With the brigade chaplain unavailable, McCrae conducted the funeral service himself. He observed the simple wooden crosses marking graves in the battlefield and noticed bright red poppies blooming amid the churned-up soil and destruction — a resilient sight in the midst of horror.
The next day, May 3, 1915, McCrae sat in the back of a field ambulance near an advanced dressing station (Essex Farm) and wrote the poem in about 20 minutes. Legend says he initially discarded it, dissatisfied, but fellow soldiers retrieved and admired it.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.