by Ted¹ Kooser

Slap of the screen door， flat knock

of my grandmother's boxy black shoes

on the wooden stoop， the hush² and sweep

of her knob-kneed， cotton-aproned stride

out to the edge and then， toed in

with a furious twist and heave，

a bridge that leaps from her hot red hands

and hangs there shining for fifty years

over the mystified chickens，

over the swaying nettles³， the ragweed，

the clay slope down to the creek⁴，

over the redwing blackbirds in the tops

of the willows⁵， a glorious rainbow

with an empty dishpan swinging at one end.