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.
Month: September 2017
yesterday
today
was
tomorrow
I had so much to do
things I had put off
consciously or
unconsciously it mattered not
I was determined to get them
done
one (or all of them)
by
one
done today
when it was tomorrow
it seemed easier
it seemed manageable
it seemed as if there would
be time
when today
was tomorrow
yet as tomorrow came,
as it always does
as yesterday lost hold of
the hours and
its way
and tomorrow just happened
anyway
it seemed
as if
time had passed me by
as if a day;
today or any day
slipped off the calendar
falling like a rose petal or
disgraced politician
into the basket of days misspent
or wasted
days which promised more
but delivered less
tomorrows do that
they never quite live up to
today
and all too often
become a yesterday
© 2014 j.g.lewis
Posted on September 5, 2017 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
The Moon woke me
there,
partially hidden
beneath the dark silken sheets.
Blushing. Concealed,
yet radiant.
She calls out in the aftermath,
a desire I hear often.
“Come closer,” I say,
I motion with my hand.
“You have touched me.”
She does not blink.
“Lay in your bed and
I shall look out
overhead,”
she promises, as she has before.
“Look out.
look up,
love me
more.”
Then she hides,
mischievously,
behind clouds
as thick as
root beer floats.
“You’ll find me again,”
she whispers.
And I will.
© 207 j.g. lewis
I grew up in a Canadian city surrounded by wheat, a community where agriculture was the lifeblood.
Wheat was king, but pulse crops, corn, potatoes, and cattle were all a part of the economy.
I grew up reading the same newspaper I later worked at. Agriculture was often front page news; crop prices, rainfall amounts, weather conditions, and whether conditions would see farmers through another year.
In good years you could see the impact on the city, sales of just about anything were on the rise. In bad years it was a drought everywhere off the farm. Farming drove the economy on the prairies, and has a greater hold on the Gross Domestic Product of this country (and others) than it is given credit for.
We think in terms of commodities, and not food, and we don’t think enough about the farmers who produce what ends up on our table.
I’m always reminded of my roots as temperatures begin to drop at night this time of year. I know that as I’m sleeping soundly, old friends of mine may well be out all night on their equipment and racing against the first frost, hopefully near the end of harvest.
Hope is a big part of agriculture. Farmers, each year, take a gamble of what they will grow and when they will plant. You’ll never meet a more optimistic bunch of people than farmers; hope is a word that sustains them.
Farming is, like no other industry, at the mercy of the weather. The best growing conditions, and the finest field of crops, can change overnight as weather can wreak havoc on the land.
We give it so little thought as we pack our grocery carts with fresh fruits, berries, and vegetables, bread, eggs, milk, and the meat we eat. We think, so little, about who cares for the land.
We look for the best prices, but how often do we think of the price a farmer is paid for his time and investment? How little of that $2 loaf of bread does a farmer receive?
It is more than nutrition; it is food for thought.
09/04/2017 j.g.l.
