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By Natasha Bredle I go to the forest to find more of you. Spring is late coming. Naked trees compose a worn blanket over the land, softly stirring above a leaf burial. Branches elongate as if to caress your spirit halfway to the sky. The sun seems a wingspan away. The world is not quiet, but I can hear less of it here. Here, where I stop in the middle of the trail and hold my breath as if my presence is what keeps some beautiful thing from appearing. Here, where I wonder if my arm span can compute the ambiguous distance between us. Here, where I am so close to believing you are not so far. If a deer shifted amongst the brush, I would see it. If it dragged its hoof along the forest floor, I would feel it to the bone. If there was a fox, a rabbit, a robin, I would pledge myself to love them while existing with them. Funny, how you are both everywhere and nowhere. I await something new and magnificent, only to receive what’s already been given. I go to the forest to find more of you. I find you are so much more than something hidden, instead. Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her work has been featured in publications such as Words and Whispers, Heart of Flesh Lit, and The Madrigal. She has received accolades from the Bennington College Young Writers Awards as well as the Adroit Prizes. In addition to poetry and short fiction, she has a passion for longer works and is currently drafting a young adult novel.
Natasha's other work on Foreshadow: The Answer (Poetry, May 2023)
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