Standing at the terminal window,
watching your plane roll slowly
to the runway’s end, lights twinkling,
seeing it hesitate, poised on the edge
of the world, then moving forward,
faster and faster, I lurch backward,
as if to pull you back, as when you
as a child ran ahead of me toward
danger, cliffs’ edges, busy roads,  
my shoulders would square in resistance,
instinctive hope that the invisible cord
still connecting you to me
would rein you in.