The Shofar

The shofar fills the synagogue
With sounds which once were heard
On ancient plains, where ancestors
Are possibly interred.

Each Rosh Hashanah, patiently,
I wait to hear those notes
Come pouring through the twisted horns
Of sacrificial goats.

Those resonating plaintive blares
Both echo and resound,
Reminding us another year
Has somehow rolled around.

I’m not at all religious
But just once a year I go
To a temple where I’ll get to hear
That mournful shofar blow.