Wailing Wall
by Astara
I want to place a large stone
against another, lifting a stone weight
each day until stone upon stone
they begin to reach for something.
A tree limb, a cloud, the blue.
Until I can slide a paper folded like praying hands
into the shadows between.
A paper that says 1977, or Los Angeles.
Maybe just my name written carefully.
A wall to sit against, to lean against
and listen to trees
and the click of crickets.
All this music in the land’s effort to green itself.
This is not Jerusalem.
This wall is only as tall
as what I can lift on my own
and what I can learn to set down.
