The old woman sits at the Western Wall.
Although she’s toothless and her eyes are dim,
She sits and waits for the shofar’s call.

Around her shoulders a white shawl,
Her face sags, her expression grim,
The old woman sits at the Western Wall.

Across her hands gold bracelets fall,
On her gray blouse’s collar, white trim,
She sits and waits for the shofar’s call.

Her hands are as crinkled as the stones of the Wall,
They hold a thick volume of Tehillim –
The old woman sits at the Western Wall.

She pulls around her the crocheted shawl
And mutters a psalm or a hymn
While she sits and waits for the shofar’s call.

She gazes up at morning’s pinkish-gold hues of the Wall.
Her swollen fingers fondle the holy book’s rim;
She sits and waits for the shofar’s call -
The old woman at the Western Wall.