The Long Trail

D.K., 1926-1979

The only sound the crunch of unbroken
snow as I climb the ridge. Hard pack
gives way to powder, my footsteps
leaving imprints, signets in the snow.
I edge between erratic boulders, drop
into a snow packed ravine. Fallen
trees rise from powder, whales
breaching. Each step kicks up blizzards.
Years before my friend was found slumped
against this tree, no tracks around him
as if descended from the sky,
a scatter of sleeping pills on his chest.
His pulse had left him days before.
He never revealed his anguish, sought
solace from the stillness of the forest. 
I stop to catch my breath—
quiet captures me as if all sound
has been vacuumed from the earth.

RICHARD WEISS

Richard Weiss is a retired physician whose poetry has appeared in Pulse, The Bellevue Review, The Westchester Review, Let the Poets Speak, and The Gay Head Lighthouse Anthology of Poets. He has had two chapbooks, Dealing with the Aftermath and Titicus Loop, published by Finishing Line Press. He divides his time between Armonk, New York, and Martha’s Vineyard.