It is September Eleven.
The Survivor Tree speaks:
                Remember --

Every year the chaos
      of that day comes fresh again.
The disconnect
      of sheer helplessness
As we gathered around televisions
To watch people dying and
      giant debris clouds billowing
      through Manhattan.
Those images of victims running away
Covered in choking white dust
Burned into our collective psyche,
Feeling so ashamed to be human.
Then in the aftermath,
So proud to be human --

We always find our redemption