The balcony

The gold of it rises from pure sunrise
Of my balcony’s shadows yet to form,
Birds forming to wake sleeping house.

When they do they are vague vain v’s
Painted in the gold of dawn’s new sky.

Just juxtapose yellow leaf with paper,
The paper of a pink flower trembling
In deep awe before a passing breeze.

You now have pink plus yellow frame
In the slightly inebriated morning sky
Without its native hues of resolution.

Acacias on the highway

Acacias stand just short of a blue,
Handy eats for the passing goats.
They harbor a plastic bag or two.

Self-portrait sees me misty-eyed,
On string cot in roadside tea stall
Just to be lost in an acacia’s blue.

The highway is unending acacias,
Always standing short of blue sky,
A green under its breathless blue.