Prairie Smoke

How he must have moved swiftly
or not, from room to room
choosing the necessary accomplices:
a rope, a sturdy attachment, the chair.

I know this despair. I know nothing of this despair.
I am haunted by the knot.

Some things I am not meant, but meant, to understand.
All I know is this bloom of mosquitos, gangsters, gleeful,
a gentle rain falling from the spout of my watering can,
to love with aching joy
nodding pink bonnets of prairie smoke.

Remember? The trail ablaze
with the flame of their bearded seed.

On that day sunlight filtered through a tangle of green,
lilac petals tumbling,
the dog curled on a mat outside the kitchen door.
Somewhere in the house a wall painted orange.