Conversion

I would like to spend the day on the slope

of a mountain, listening to a parable

about a lost sheep or a blighted vineyard

For months my only companion would be this story

and the more I told it to myself

the clearer everything would become

Then, I would remove my helmet of opinion

and walk into the public streets

revealing the soft brown mushroom of my new head

I would repeat the story to small groups of men

drawing illustrations in the sand with a stick.

I would leave them murmuring in a circle.

And late at night when the cold wind found

the chinks in my house 

and disturbed the candle stub next to my bed.

I would hear the story told by the tongues of flame

and watch the shadows of my former self

flicker on the low ceiling and the walls of stone.

Billly Collins

 “The Art of Drowning”