Rolling up the hill
A snowball in reverse
Losing momentum
Gaining altitude
Diminishing
The sharp scent of ozone
Replacing the soft aroma of pine
Below
And the world is white
Up here
With great outcroppings of dark rock
The occasional obstacle
Somehow
It gets by
But not without
Leaving a bit of itself
Behind

Rolling up the mountain side
A speck
An imperfection
To blend into the landscape
All that sky
The opposite of gravity
Though the pull is the same

Rolling toward the peak
It cannot be stopped
Not now
Forward to a beginning
Searching for an end
And hardly a trail to be seen
In the soft white snow