First Prayer – a poem by Jonathan Cohen

First Prayer



These are the last nights of open windows and cricket sounds.
Mornings, the ground is soaked with dew.

We traced the path of Jupiter and trailing Saturn all summer long, 
and now we can’t find them, hidden behind jumbled night skies.
We work out winter’s warning to buy a new shovel,
and salt for the driveway, to get some overshoes, wondering, 

will Orion be a bright sign or a fading signal when 
it crowns the southern sky?
will it signify our blessed fortune or a final notice of decree 
from the Bureau of Fate? 
the one that says, this is to inform you that you are screwed.
Let us make our appeal.

Imitation birdsong is the most ancient prayer, they say, the source 
of human speech. Tamil Brahmins have chanted it for ten thousand years.

I have mantras, too, as old as the oldest ancientness. 
I stand in the yard listening.
I watch the breeze climb the treetops.
I prepare to pull the boat down to the shore.

To the deep we go, to petition, atone, face the facts,
to meet what will come with cheer, if warranted, 
with resolve if required.
To tip my keel on the rolling sea —

the last open window, the last cricket song,
the first prayer of the soul’s new year.


September 2019/ Elul 5779

Jonathan Cohen lives on the Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound with his wife, daughters, and a hound dog. He hails from Buffalo, New York, which informs his writing and where he has deep roots. He studied history and philosophy at Kenyon College and now studies poetry with Jon Davis.