It is highway or my way, as usual
A self portrait in the worlds seen
Through the blue eyes of acacias.
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.