Flames: Yellow & Blue (Is It Poetry Collaboration) Poem by Nika McGuin

Yellow:

To dream about the yellow flame of May,
I dream I'm covered by the smell of grass by me it is.
Sleeping where I sleep, amons't the flowers.
Beneath the tree, I rest against the sturdy trunk.
I glide above the rhythm of each cloud as it floats by.
No one taught me how to bow, I know it fleeting is.
Alone this tree it stands across the field above the rest.
And to climb this tree in sleep and sleep it is.
I dream this tree is like an endless sea of waving trees.
I dream a burning bush beneath this tree it's top of leaves
and full of life, the yellow flame of May, can not put out.

The yellow flame of May holds its breath in yearlong anticipation;
here in this desert dreamscape, wildflowers may bloom.
Parched sands dye golden under the flame's impatient gaze
for no one knows when, or even if they will bloom this time.
It is all so dependent on mother nature's mood swings.
But for the time being, I dare to dream of once barren fields
now filled with a sweeping array of colored efflorescence.
Here the trees are dislodged by cacti, newly crowned in posy
and these fields become a rolling sea of paint splattered hills.
I dream of desolate lands that endured a lifetime of dry spells,
only to be enchanted, spell bound by boundless fauna and flora.
Proof that even under the yellow flame of May, life is sewn and reaped.

Blue:

Why are you trapped as you are?
Feeling the hand, of the blues.
Someone else other than me,
has left you as one should not be.

I saw your picture back then
when I read the poem,
you had written with him.
Did it not go as words
tend to flow,
back to the sea of your dreams

Indigo-skinned fingers lace fixedly at your throat
leaving you, a caged bird incapable of singing.
Under the cover of night the words float to him
like the mementos of so many broken promises.

Only fragments remain of your now obscure past:
poetry you read to him, the old worn shirts he gave in return
as lost as the snippets of your once long curly hair.
They are but floating diyas upon the river of remembrance;
their lights flicker as they drift along
fading slowly into bitter-sweet dreams.