THE THINGS I DROPPED

As the shadows migrate and the whistle of the wind stops
the search in the grass
for the things I dropped
in the clumsiness, unforgivable hurry,
all that panic
begins to swallow me as the evening swallows the day.
I grope in the dark for someone's hand,
a metaphoric silence half reveals, half veils
my fears of losing once again and for all,
the things I dropped in the hurry.