Pearl Abraham – ‘Late to Spirit’ Crown

Is Anything too hard for the Lord?

                                                            —Genesis, 18:14

Hineni

Is that You, God, in the shaking leaves

in the changed light of August, ushering

in the solemn season: Who will live/die?

I stand stilled in green shade, in wonder,

my bare skin bumped up to answer Your

 poplar call, my early shofar, my Elul.

When a girl in my HS class started swaying

when praying, we called it geshukelt & wondered.

I was a reader, stayed up nights to finish

whole novels by flashlight, under cover,

my synagogue.  I preferred story to psalms

though I was raised to blessings before meals

praise & prayer for everything.  Somehow

I came late to spirit—I am here now.

My Father’s Synagogue

If, like me, he’d preferred trees to people

he would’ve had a standing minyan for Shabbos—

without waiting at the corner to beg passersby

on their way to another shul— & fulfilled

his mother’s ambition for him, renown,   

like the grandfather he was named for.  He could’ve

had forests, multiple minyans, tens to the nth

in trunks of every texture, thickness, height,

quorums of trees for collective prayer.

Even the Baal Shem believed a private appeal

to God, speaking plainly, in Yiddish even,

alone in the forest, more powerful.

If my father had accepted the tall

pines in our yard as members, if like me.

In the Garden

I grew up with pines in our yard—members

of the bungalow colony we lived in

year round—with overlapping circles of needles,

sticky sap, shade. With only these pines & nine

of us.  We didn’t know life was hard until

neighbors came, friends for each age. We lost our

solitude, got busy with cliques, jealousies—

criticism of skirts that didn’t cover knees,

of the 60s-style hand-me-down mustard coat

that wasn’t in—& knew we were naked. 

Houses displaced the pines. My father’s minyan

grew & shrank with the weather, a rain-day shul.

My mother’s refrain:  What will the neighbors say. 

I promise every family is scary.

“If You Want It Darker” —Leonard Cohen

I promise every family is scary

starting with the first, its blame game: Adam

points to Eve, Eve to the snake, snake to God,

who incites Cain to stand up against Abel

& calls forth Am I my brother’s keeper?

My own mother, for whom love wasn’t enough. 

Moved a sea & ocean away from birthplace

she became an angry mother.  And me,

my little family of different kinds,

ponies as kids.  Lord, forgive my preference

for Your first creations:  skies & stars, earth

& grass, plants, trees, even the hawk with wind

in its wings, with talons for taking life.

I’ll take birds, fish, creeping things, all but man.

Tikkun

I’ll take birds, fish, creeping things, all, but man.

Our great horned owl hoots early evenings

& seconds later his for-life wife answers

in her lower register, telling us

all is well with them, if not with the world,

that his wing is holding up post rehab.

.05” rain got day-glo efts crossing

the road, fall migration to the wetland,

until low temps slowed their hearts to a halt

& they were getting run over.  We used leaves

to move them, their toxic red a warning

to predators: birds, snakes, us. These tiny

salamanders that regenerate damaged

limbs, spines, eyes, also gladdened our frayed hearts.

Is anything too hard for the Lord? – Genesis

Our frayed hearts, flayed limbs, pained spines, preyed upon,

damaged by all the damage in this damaged world

for every good, a not good, for every wonder,

a horror. Yesterday, a bird flew into

the driver’s side of my car, became a streak 

of green fatigue. This morning, I found a vole

in the pony’s water bucket.  Last week

a chipmunk.  When a third creature drowned, I knew

it wasn’t just a slip & filled 

shallow pans with fresh water.  You haven’t sent

rain in weeks. As a child, I loved thunder

in summer, the change. Even at sixty,

I am stirred by storm, wind & whirl, asking 

Is that you, God, in the shaking leaves?