A Subtle Art The air took me quietly, a small solar flare, found penchant misnomer, misguidance guiding me to the footfall where I lay softly at the feet of everything, which includes nothing. No sacrament, no starry-eyed gaze, just wist and for a moment, peace. I stared and decided this was poetry, the leaving and the returning and every inch of lichen growing beside my window, pleading here with quiet sighs and shadows. So write. So speak it with your breath and record it in the asterisks, the meadow at half-moon. The forgetting, the picture frame preservation. My eyes when they see the stars. Mother watching the ceiling at midnight, preacher trying to feel God, horizon beckoning us to elsewhere. If everything and nothing is home, then I belong nowhere but here, breathing inside and outside, uncertain and so very sure.
Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Ohio. She writes about what she thinks about, which is really too much for her poor brain. You can find her work in Aster Lit, Trouvaille Review, and Full House Lit, to name a few.