The Conversion

Why brandish your hatred
like a politician full of a fury
or like a woman calculating her escape
from a man opulent with fast hands and greedy words
that twist and turn the mind from innocent hope
to a deep and dark well of emptiness,
a cavity with no light to be seen?

Pull the mandolin
from the case
bright with joyful music
and play me a tune.

No need to sequester yourself
from the world
when the white dusting of winter
cleans the path like petals at a wedding.

Let the ugliness go.
Let the unseen hurts disappear.
Let the plodding pace of love win.

This is the conversion
we all can believe in.