Poetry: Will

Will the shy petals of red anemones return
this spring
and joy-splotch the blankets of green?
Will we roll in the meadows like children
again
and eat cheese sandwiches with black olives?

When the rain finally stops and the mud
dries
will the flattened grass regrow from under
the deep
chain-prints of tanks?
Will the birds chirp their usual songs
when the sky-piercing missiles are gone
and the blue is quiet again?

The anemones, and the grass
The birds, and the sky
And us, in the meadows in springtime
And after
And after

Israel, February 2024

Poetry Editor Alica Ostriker comments:
Rinat Harel’s mysterious one-word title has a potential double meaning. “Will” might be simply asking a question, seeking a prediction: is such-and-such going to happen? But it may also carry the idea of desire and intention. Do you will this? Is this your will? The urgency of the repetition seems a half-echo of the phrase “God’s will,” and the invocation of innocent springtime nature and childhood leads to a question of whether healing is possible.

Harel’s insistent yet unfinished ending implies that perhaps there can be no “after,” only repetition and perhaps extinction. Implicitly, the poem is asking if we humans can emulate nature’s self-healing energy and overcome our addiction to violence.