We cherish, too, the poppy red

That grows on fields where valor led,

It seems to signal to the skies

That blood of heroes never dies.

That brief poem was written in 1915 by an American woman named Moina Michael, who started a Memorial Day tradition with her verse. Thousands are wearing red poppies today to honor those who sacrificed their lives in war. Michael was inspired by an even more famous war poem from 1915, John McCrae’s  “In Flanders Fields,” printed in full below.

Like other holidays, the meaning of Memorial Day is lost to those who know the day best as a day away from school or work. First called Decoration Day, the holiday began in small towns where war widows and others took the time to decorate the graves of those who died in battle.

America’s first officially recognized Decoration Day occurred at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, where battle-weary citizens gathered to decorate the graves of both Union and Confederate veterans of the Civil War.

For years the holiday was recognized on May 30, but was shifted to the last Monday in May some years ago. In 2000, President Clinton asked that we all take a moment at 3 p.m., wherever we are on this day, to silently reflect on the sacrifice of our soldiers.

This gesture is more meaningful than ever in  times of war, and today many of us, our friends or neighbors have relatives and loved ones in harm’s way in Iraq or Afghanistan.

As we take a day off, let us set aside a moment to honor the dedication and sacrifice of those making it their mission to protect our soil and the freedoms we hold dear, and all who have gone before them.

McCrae’s poem was written after a particularly grueling battle in what was then called the Great War. The story goes that McCrae, a Canadian soldier, wrote it while looking out on the battlefield, showed it to another soldier and then threw it away before it was retrieved, reprinted and eventually made known around the world.

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.