by Karyn Huntting Peters
You, o black oil-covered wind!
Heavy rolling in the hot night air, were you
the prophet whose tarry fingerprints and streaks of
viscous moistness covered every third
tomorrow with a bloodless scarlet letter?
Was it you who whispered in the trees as
you caressed and slid over their spring buds?
Was it you who quieted to watch as the rains,
now foreign, beaded to fall from this oil,
this frankincense of the prophet who smelled of spring
as the tree now smelled of the future?
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