How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
A little cold, little wet,
a little tired and yet
I am here. Still,
full of wonder.
The morning chill leaves
little to the imagination
and much less
to hope for.
Expected, perhaps, as it
always is, this time, this
season is only what
we ask of it.
11/21/2024 j.g.l.
The answers are far less certain
than even last week, to all those
perennial questions or solutions
you might seek.
What do you believe, or
what do you believe in?
Come Monday, you have fewer
questions than you had last week.
For a while there are less doubts
in what you believe.
Whom do you believe in,
and who believes in you?
11/18/2024 j.g.l.
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Roots Run Deep
Months now standing still, a temporary rest
for snow, frost, or the occasional bird.
Whistling winter’s woes, lifeless really,
actually dormant. Nothing.
Days stripped bare of your
colour and kindness.
Mainly shadows against temporal skies,
merely an echo of what you have been
and can be. Roots run deep, permanently
planted in our lives, having grown with us.
Three seasons remind us daily
of purpose and perseverance.
A range of tones, stories untold, and
breathing life in all we are.
The fourth season you stand.
An example to us all, sustained growth.
Each year another ring,
shelter from sun or rain.
Venerable, offering only your truth,
asking simply for patience. You
soak up our emissions, recycle our sins
and then stand. Stoic. Steadfast.
We wait. Late now, or later than usual,
we’ve grown restless.
Now we need you more than ever
to show our lives go on. A complete cycle,
buds, blossoms, full expression. Bring on
your colour, spread out your shade.
Contribute, again,
to meaningful days.
I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.