We tire of unpredictable weather, the damp morning chill, wet socks and lost mittens. Winter keeps reminding it is not through with us.
We have suffered long enough.
The streets are tired and dirty and the time change only makes things darker in the morning.
We need a brighter view.
We need, now, the renewal that comes with spring.
03/20/2023 j.g.l.
Progress comes less from planning than participation.
Dreams and wishes require action and attention.
Start moving.
03/19/2023 j.g.l.
If we wait too long
for the stars to align, for
some kind of hope, or
some kind of sign,
if we let our lives hang on
still-bated breath, we will
forever wonder
what is still to come
or what we have left. If we
don’t own the moments,
or make them our own,
will we ever feel like
we’ve made our way home?
If we can’t be honest
with others, and especially
our selves,
can we ever explain why
or how
we once felt?
If we wait too long, it
may never arrive.
Stop waiting,
start doing,
start feeling alive.
© 2016 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.
Dense fog obliterates the beginning of our day,
surrounded by pavement and landscape with little snow to
track where we have been or what we need to know. Without
a true north to guide our direction, we are pulled further
into this element of fear. Who do, or can, we hold dear.
Winter now that of a librarian’s hush; a hint of caution but
nothing to heed, not as such. Many of us decided not to listen.
Complicit in our actions or intent, the atmosphere has
become veiled in a chorus of disjointed voices, more
about the chosen and less about the choices.
Each of us comes from somewhere else. It is how we have
grown, forever going anywhere new instead of finding
our way home. Making friendly with strangers we never
really got to know, nothing comes from nothing
and we have so little to show.
Lessons learned in how we’ve lost control of our lives, liberty
being not about how we live but how we will die. Temporary
lapse of judgement or time, conscience, or reason. We truly
have no idea what to expect of the day, of ourselves,
or the remainder of the season.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
