Hope is a handed-down drum

Hope is a handed-down drum,
Worn out over decades of use.
I hold it in my hands, over my head
And let the rain pound down upon it
The music drowning out the deluge,
Letting me walk through the storm.

Sometimes, after a fierce hail,
Some wayward drop will pierce
Right through the battered top.
Suddenly I fear any light shower
Might fill it up till the water’s weight
Breaks through and drowns me.

I rush to the nearest friend
And ask for shelter and fabric
And time to piece it together,
Until I can spend the hours I need
To repair my drum properly
Once I am safely at home.