The Backward Flow

A man bent with the burden
of too many birthdays walks his dog,
shuffles through dry leaves piled
ankle deep along the sidewalk.
Everywhere the retreat goes on,
flames die in the sumac and maples
unseen, unheard, the roots draw in
the sap for growth when the call comes.
The man, fortified with morning prayers,
watches with his cane for snares
a tilted sidewalk square sets for him.
He neglects the view around him
for a narrow focus on his path as
each foot seeks a firm step before
abandoning an old position. Naked
trees wait in the confidence of
resurrection. The man plods to the
end of the block, turns and faces
the interminable journey of return.
The small white dog burrows in leaves,
dances on hind legs, catches a mouthful
of torn paper, makes the morning alive
with its ignorance of the backward flow
in tree and man.