[.smalltext] This poem was a finalist for Plough ’s 2021 Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award . [.smalltext]

A dark, dictated famine made by war.
Small fires, for warmth, lit up the towns; canals
blockaded by command froze up, as if
to make a point. The Dutch began to starve.
They gnawed on sugar beets and tulip bulbs.

Out walking here, in Naarden’s ancient woods,
I see a stand of trees made strange by war.
Bullets have signed the bark, their wounds a mad
and modern furioso . No Arden here.
And in the rows of trees, a few grow straight
but only for a foot or two, then veer
off east or west, continuing to rise
within a different column of air as if
an origami fold had given them
a surreal twist. These trees were cut for fuel
but over seven decades grew again.
Time is simple for a tree, it hides
its rings inside, a strange geometry
by which a rise inscribes itself as round.
The reckoning of feet or yards remains
visible, as though the tree might be
a giant wooden ruler marking years.
These limping trees look frightened, almost as if,
having seen something terrible, they tried
to take a step—they tried to walk, or run.
Three-quarters of a century is long,
even if less long for trees, which hold
their winters close, and imperceptibly, rise.
They never will grow straight now, yet they grow.

[.smalltext] Watch Susan de Sola read her poem at the first annual Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award ceremony. [.smalltext]

[.imgcaption] Eyvind Earle, Jeweled Trees , oil, 1999 © 2021 Eyvind Earle Publishing. Used by permission. [.imgcaption]