Single strands of hair float to the ground from her parted fingers.
She watches them
And she mourns the separation
No longer a part of her.
But there is some comfort in the passing.
The thought that 29 lands have felt her presence and feel it still.
She is part of them as they are parts of her.
An inevitable system of coalescence
Impressions that remain
If but in a dust ball rolling through the breeze
Across streets,
Through fields,
Into homes,
Resting on still creatures waiting for something to happen.
