Allan Peterson
So Much So

The weathering of wood, that is beautiful,
fraying, beautiful.
The blond hair caught in the bandage,
that also, for itself.
The becoming and ruins that intrigue us.
Everything actual
and their exceptional referents,
nothing out of context.
A hand selecting a marble from a glass bowl,
limbs cluttered by daylight,
soot at night.
Maybe the tub feet are memories
of a great hawk grasping the globe it feeds on.
or the squirrel stuffing acorns in crevices
as today along the sea wall,
and the flicker coming after, removing them.
Maybe it was not a great hawk,
but a great woodpecker, or an average woodpecker
and a great acorn, everything following
something else with beautiful intentions.
So much so that nothing is ordinary.
Day and night being the same dream
from which we never awaken, never actually sleep.