It’s April, the cruel one, and still heavy jacket chilly.
Madison in April sometimes feel like mid-winter.
I recall those odd days when what you expect,
what is forecast hardly matches what turns out.
The plane makes that famous bank, turning down
so the left side swooping view makes you feel like you’ve avoided
potential collision with the capitol building on the square.
The runway runs slick with rain beside my frosted window,
and as we slow my heart rate accelerates.
Being the last one off the plane seems right,
even though I wish I’d been positioned to be first.
I see you seeing me, squintingly, waving slowly,
my heart runs up around my Adam’s apple,
and I wish we were close enough that I
could see if your heart might beat as fast as mine.