They say time heals all wounds and while those directly affected haven't and probably won't be completely healed from the tragedy of September 11th, the muted reception of the second anniversary shows the country as a whole has moved on. The bells on the Campanile won't be marking any 9/11 events as it once did last year but will do what it usually does: mark the passage of time.

New York City was as crowded as ever when I visited there last month. Politically, togetherness has given way to partisan bickering as the President's approval ratings have gone down to their original levels from 2 years ago and people fret about the worsening budget deficit and the enlarging Iraq money pit. Agonizing on whether the worst can happen tomorrow has given way to worrying about when Ben and J. Lo will get married (now postponed indefinitely). But always in our hearts and on our minds, the victims will never be forgotten.

The Names by Billy Collins

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Everling, names falling into place
as droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
26 willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot
among thousands of flowers,
heavy with dew, like the eyes of tears,
and each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal.
Then Gonzales and Han, Ishikawa, and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
and stitched into the cloth of the day,
a name under a photograph taped to a mailbox,
monogram on a torn shirt.
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
and on the bright, unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner,
Kelly, and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden,
as in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Shubert, Torres and Upton,
secrets in the bows of ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
or cried out behind a door,
Names blown over the Earth and out to sea.

In the evening, weakening light, the last swallows,
a boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
and the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacor and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
then Young and Ziminski, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin,
one name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
the bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the wills of the heart.