The Drummer
She picks up her drum.
Asks for it’s permission.
Her hands caress it.
The skin of the living meets
the skin of the dead.
She strikes it.
It vibrates back.
The communication has begun.
The drum is a primal instrument
It awakens something ancient in us.
Something beautiful yet savage.
It demands a fierce love.
It is a fire that has always been there.
Like the sun burning behind the clouds.
She pulls the beat from her heart and leads the group.
Hitting the drums sweet spot.
Then pausing.
The drum speaks.
She listens.
She is a master of this native language.
The song of the blood.
She then relinquishes the throne
to a student.
She can now drum from the outside looking in.
Each drummer has a different energy.
She conducts it keeping it in the circle.
A sacred shape.
Like a campfire, the drums captivate you.
Constantly moving yet staying in the same spot.
This is an archetypal poem about a real person.
