a thousand hats

(via cocoparisienne @ pixabay)

you wait on a rust-covered footpath
for June to rush in
and upstage autumn
with a click of blue fingers and breath 
that pulls frost over windshields

a grey-matter sky
between jingle jangle branches,
where someone has air-brushed
black clouds into the scene
and you wait for coffee
and you’re thinking about 
getting away from here

not just winter, but the whole
year — you’re thinking
nothing’s worth going back for
and I’m struck by trees
like scarecrows lining up for orders, 
hands groping after hats
that the wind has scattered 
in a thousand pieces.