Poem, drafted, seeks title

What do you think it should be called?

We’re all coming down from the eclipse this week. Here, where I live, out of the path of totality, the clouds padded the view (and that eternal temptation to peek without glasses for just a split second; the sun used to get in my eyes while tracking Little League pop-ups and I’m not blind from that, right?). But the dogs and I still took a walk and experienced that eerie light, the unexpected chill.

That light reminds me somewhat of the light on smoky forest-fire days. Which reminded me of this poem from the vault. Which reminds me that I have my next collection waiting for me to return to it …

This is the light of discovering
I actually do like peaches.
Of lithographic prints, of
the inside of a paper lantern.

This is the light I imagine,
today, will frame the last
days of our world. So what
if I like it?

Hating it won't put out
the new wildfire, four hundred
acres since breakfast alone.
Feeling guilty for wonder

and delight won't put back
everything, everything, 
everything that has just
gone up in smoke.

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This poem has no title (yet) and it hasn’t shown me the right one (yet). What do you think it should be called?

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