As she walks, the wind blows

As she walks, the wind blows, or does the wind move her? Parting the grass made crisp by fall her every step is recorded in time. Time is the seasons of grass, the spinning of planets, the motion of infinite particles. She is filled with love of particles, with love of self, even of the grass that, in time, will cover her steps of existence. She and I and you blend into one long chain of events, like clouds bound by law to return to the sea.