Leaves turn, fall and gather on the roof.
I stay still, unchanged.
The worry for the foreseeable gathers between the cracks.
I look up, conker-bound and see the distance from what I can't help.
My standing still is cemented care.
If I could I would bring two foetus sleeps.
Instead I queue and listen to the breaking voice.
The worry is there between the cracks.
This time soon my heart will cease-swell
and I will turn, fall and gather again.