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a poem by
Joanne Lowery
> bio

Meander: Moon

Ten minutes before night
most of the darkness hunkers in trees.
To the west, gold silt spreads across the sky.
You’d think a sickle moon would slice
straight toward zenith. Instead
it dodges cloud to cloud
until all is clear and it can go
anywhere. It chooses to hide behind
your shoulder and the neighbor’s barn.
Soon you’re twirling like a happy child
and it’s winking with each turn.
The world spins in careful circles
with no destination. A few days later
when you look up, its face like yours
is almost familiar, almost full.



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