It feels like icy lemon gelato

Hitting the tip of your tongue on a hot day

It is the splash off of a diving board

It hits you like laughing hysterically with your friends, 

The grabbing of your stomach gasping for air,

You see, it’s laying on the floor talking for hours

Slight giggles every now and then

The understanding that you’re there, together.}

My drawing:

And dreams in the sky, 

Hoping that, someday, the roots of one 

Will meet the upstretched limbs of the other. 

It has not happened yet. 

We share the sky, all of us, the whole world: 

Together, we are a tribe of eyes that look upward, 

Even as we stand on uncertain ground. 

The earth beneath us moves, quiet and wild, 

Its boundaries shifting, its muscles wavering. 

The dream of sky is indifferent to all this, 

Impervious to borders, fences, reservations.

The sky is our common home, the place we all live. 

There we are in the world together. 

The dream of sky requires no passport. 

Blue will not be fenced. Blue will not be a crime. 

Look up. Stay awhile. Let your breathing slow. 

Know that you always have a home here.

BY APRIL HALPRIN WAYLAND

Not tonight but tomorrow

when the light turns the peach

tree green and the Earth sprouts

its young leaves looking to repeat

the magical mystery tour of

photosynthetic conversion of light

and moisture into life—

Not tonight but tomorrow

when my body will have shed

its fear of turning old and soft

will I turn my speeding mind

into the tunnels of your psyche

to melt the calcium that constipates

your synapses into a lubricating powder—

Not tonight but tomorrow

when the Universe moves on

beyond the field of action

that is the Earth to me and you

will I discover the interplanetary clues

that signal the roots of my moment to you—

Not tonight but tomorrow

will I throw my feelings into

New York streets to stew

in the violence and despair

of our planet—

Not tonight but tomorrow

will the Earth turn green again.