Dust to dust

   It seemed to Amos as to Hosea
   desert mornings of late bristled with signs
   portending stark changes, stark comings on,

   signals of God knows what from God knows where.
   Amos felt buoyant, as if a river
   of fresh rain hissed and shrilled over dry bones,

   over sun-bleached rocks. Dust in his nostrils,
   he let himself go, borne up in a rush
   through a rift on a raft of sweet water.

   Lightheaded and gasping, he erupted
   a new infant, babbling to Bethel's king
   of one God for the nations, of pity

   for the poor. So too Hosea, except
   the morning glimmers and bristlings he glimpsed
   left him feeling not borne up but born to,

   new-hatched, to a doting father. Who spread
   olive, cedar, lily in abundance.
   Who largessed acacias aplenty.

   Who gave acres of vine, gazelles in hordes,
   woolen wardrobes for him to tear to shreds.
   All rich gifts saved up for his salvation.

   Like Amos he babbled rebuke throne-ward
   against false gods, injustice, and neglect.
   Two high voices whipping a desert wind.