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.
Before the Dear, before the date,
a letter is nothing more than
a receptive, yet vacant, page.
Nothing there except intention
and will to communicate.
All those thoughts, where you were,
what you sought, a point of view,
daily news, perhaps
of no consequence to someone
who was not there, and
that may be the whole point
of a letter.
Handwriting, immediate, as it was,
scratches steadily across the paper.
An occasional pause, yet
the mind flows freely. Topics
appear out of nowhere;
the weather where you are,
how is it there? Of course
you write, of course you care.
Tell it like it is, you’ve got
something more to say, and
no better way to say it
than a letter.
© 2018 j.g. lewis
The longer days of summer, a bit more time to myself, and a greater will to connect.
I can’t explain it any other way, other than a desire to catch up with people far away, but I’ve been writing letters consistently over the past week. I do write letters, often, but not quite this much (or not as much as I have been).
I’ve always enjoyed letters. I feel you communicate differently when you say it in a handwritten letter. It’s not at all like an email; and I won’t say it is better. It is just different. Letters take time to write and time to arrive. Often they are not expected, and in that way it might be a surprise.
A letter is how it used to be done, but it is not old-fashions. It is just the way it was.
A friend recently described a letter as “love in an envelope”. That itself is something to write about.
Write on.
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.