03-13-14 Trilluim

the potato trots next to me,
I pick up my pace,
we can do this,
past the downturn in the trail,
over the bridge, where the frost,
clings to the rails, between the lines,
of the sun patterning through the early
morning trunks, then up the muddy
edged curves, over the crest,
I slow down,
breathing is difficult,
the chest hurts,
then down again,
ferns, cold, curled,
blur past my awkward form,
then I stop,
white, barely formed,
petals in three,
blink awake,
is it spring yet? 
the potato takes the break,
to mark the trail,
I  continue,
down over the bridge again,
then.