Deer skin

Stretched round as the full moon
Across a sturdy wooden hoop.
Laced together with thin threads of rawhide
Ribboning across the back.
Left to dry and find its baritone voice.

Self-made with fumbling fingers
And the help of expert hands.
Used to invoke the muse -
To separate this and that
In the day that gets in the way
Of making things by hand -
Bread, meals, paintings
Poems.

The soft low, beat, beat, beat
Of my magical, healing drum.