Mysterious Way

Mysterious Way

Megan Huwa

The ring of January is not glee
running wild, free with whole-hearted jubilee.
Its vacancy is hushed and draped white,
its hope is hidden beneath the cloak of might
that new life is mustering its courage,
neath the weighty cloak, to emerge
in March, April, or May. And may it be—

So I walk with William Cowper’s verse in my ear
and tack to and fro our neighborhood near.
This day, every day, every door the same 
except a violin—Theme of Schindler’s List—
has through a cracked front door slipped.

The sound of sorrow practiced over and again;
one whose violin grieves like Cowper’s pen.
Minutes pass and I am still standing,
for this theme is no orchestra playing;
it is one embodied—
one with bow in hand, body upon 
the shoulder beneath the chin, 
    bowing an immutable ghost note

With the sun anchored upward,
I turn to tack home,
taken by why
my shadow is so long
and how the sun still shines.

---

Megan Huwa
Poet & Editor

Megan has been published in San Antonio Review, The Midwest Quarterly, LETTERS Journal, The Habit Portfolio, and The Penwood Review and featured on The Habit Podcast and Fieldmoot. You can read more of her work at meganhuwa.com.

Photography by Kari Kittlaus