I heard the drum beat long before I leaned to speak,

but forgot it,

later I lost it chasing pony tails across the street,

but it beat again, softly,

the mistress of the house put it in a box in the basement,

and I forgot about it,

almost,

until late at night I thought I heard it,

coming across the gentle water like a rock,

but if I tried to listen,

it hid beneath the water,

just below my soul,

and I forgot again.

The day my son left home I thought I heard it,

behind the sky,

or maybe in the woods

where we used to catch turtles and let them go,

a drum beat as old as God’s words,

but I decided it was just the rhythm of my own steps,

climbing up the hill.

But yesterday I heard it,

at my father’s grave,

a drum beat,

an earth sound from my father,

an unsung song about the water and the sky,

the unspoken word’s that make men cry,

the son’s dowry from the ancient wise men,

chanting around the fire,

stirring the ashes as they teach the souls to fly,

before the father’s die.