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.
Clocks set back, days ahead altered
as if time can be held, still
we cannot fool ourselves in believing.
The sun will still set.
We seldom lose hours as much as
we change our trajectory.
It will get darker, before you know.
The sun will still rise.
Between where and then, light will
strike any object in its path
as long as it is able. Faithfully, we watch.
The sun sets.
This autumn, this November,
carries a tone of melancholy.
Steadfast, I can only stare back.
The sun rises.
I know about fear, or fear what I know.
Remnants of the day,
routinely, have so much less to offer.
The sun will still set.
When all that you know becomes
all that you have, you are
unable to consider possibility.
The sun will still rise
We live and breathe, twenty-four hours
daily. Memory will serve us;
those uncertain, those unbroken.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
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.