Peel Poem by Jon Butter

The harbor buoy peals on the ferry's rolling waves.
Old houses, wind battered, line the same coast line
that 100 years before held only shells and creatures.
The clouds and water look the same: Gray, ancient, tired.
But the houses get their spring paint on peeling columns.
Gardens refresh with new earth and then color.
The same waves that sounded the buoy hit the shore
like the din of children slapping the lunch table with open hands.
Life will never be the same and nothing changes.