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.
It has been, or remains to be, a season of waiting.
Deep frost has only arrived and only enough to remind us what is to come.
November is tomorrow.
For weeks now the leaves on the trees have ever so slowly been shifting from green to yellow, occasionally reddish-orange (with a hint or brown), but for the most part the canopy of colour remains overhead in the park I choose to wander through daily.
Yes, I have noticed the scattered leaves on the pavement – as I do each autumn – but this year it seems I keep waiting for that change.
We need the seasons to remind us what is to come and what was there, or where we were. Each period of the year is incremental.
If our life is not measured by days, it is marked by the seasons.
It becomes personal.
I feel, this year, like I am not undergoing any sort of obvious transformation.
It is not for lack of trying.
It is not that I am unmotivated.
It is, perhaps, that I need to feel where I am before stepping forward.
It is not progress but it is required to mark my place and hold it, just a little while longer.
Maybe I am not ready for change?
10/21/2022 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.