Backward

— for my father

You recognized the earnestness

when I set out alone

—you had always been my compass—

with a thermos

and your field binoculars

to be free, to be forensic

by the creek.

I studied the silt, unburied

skeletal leaves. I followed

the wayward tracks of geese

but couldn’t find their gaggle.

Late afternoon

when I hadn’t returned

you drove into the valley

and found me ankle-deep

in caking clay.

You didn’t laugh when you grasped:

I’d been following

their three-pronged footprints

backward—

arrows I believed were pointing me

into the future.

Laurie Koensgen lives and writes in Ottawa, Canada. Her poetry appears internationally in journals, anthologies and online magazines. Recent publishers include Stone Circle Review, Literary Review of Canada, The Madrigal, Contemporary Verse 2, Rust and Moth, and flo. Literary Magazine. Laurie’s latest chapbook, Small Psalms for Moving On, is with Pinhole Poetry.