And then, I'll read a poem called "The Iron Bridge."
"The Iron Bridge"
"I am standing on a disused iron bridge
that was erected in 1902, according to the iron bolt--
according to the iron plaque bolted into a beam,
the year my mother turned one.
Imagine, a mother in her infancy, and she
was a Canadian infant at that, one of the great infants
of the province of Ontario.
But here I am leaning on the rusted railing looking
at the water below, which is flat and reflective
this morning, sky-blue and streaked with high clouds.
And the more I look at the water, which is like a talking
picture, the more I think of 1902
when workmen in shirts and caps riveted this iron bridge
together across a thin channel joining two lakes,
where wildflowers blow along the shore now, and pairs of swans
float in the leafy coves.
1902, my mother was so tiny she could
have fit into one of those oval baskets
for holding apples, which her mother could have
lined with a soft cloth and placed on the kitchen table,
so she could keep an eye on infant Katherine,
while she scrubbed potatoes or shelled a bag of peas.
The way I am keeping an eye on that cormorant who
just broke the glassy surface, and is moving away
from me and the iron bridge, swiveling his curious head,
slipping out to where the sun rakes the water and filters
through the trees that crowd the shore.
And now, he dives, disappears below the surface.
And while I wait for him to pop up somewhere,
I picture him flying underwater with his strange wings,
as I picture you, my tiny mother, who
disappeared last year, flying somewhere
with your strange wings.
Your wide eyes and your heavy wet dress
kicking deeper down into a lake with no end, no name,
some boundless province of water."