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: December 2022
Your whisper fair warns us, yet still
we are surprised. The calendar’s last page,
and we are left feeling more. Always.
Winter: a beginning comes near the end,
while the end craves new beginnings.
The longest season, physically, or
spiritually. Consistency, year over year,
over year, from one into the next.
Cold, as it is darker. Light is appreciated,
and necessary. We grow up knowing,
the facts of this season. Always,
our lives marked by winter.
Time, and years, have become forgotten,
but we are reminded. The soil
and silence, frozen. Our insular existence,
non-secular pain, wind-chafed emotions,
a reminder again. We desire
a warm touch; December, January or
otherwise. Hope, as with autumn’s last leaf,
dangling in a greater stillness.
A confessional. Always. Dormancy
until early spring, what we allow or when
we embrace. Silence. Darkness.
We need not be surprised.
Impulse knows. We have been here before.
©2017 j.g. lewis
Posted on December 9, 2022 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
we try to find rhythm
sort out our words
the same attempt
the same cadence
again and again
again we scratch on
the empty page
filling time with
disjointed memories
all that we own
all that we know
all that we see
if only our breath
on a chilly morning
what will become of our day?
12/08/2022 j.g.l.
