I cannot name trees. I cannot say: that’s a tall maple.
Though, I can name thrashing when I hear it
or call the sallow of their boughs sallow. Or the fading,
bulbous stories of their shadows, shadows.
The mausoleum across the way is dotted in black-gray
grapes, black-gray hydrangeas, black-gray beehives.
Tiny black-gray bees pass across the stone most afternoons
and go about the work of being a projection.
Michelle Meier is a writer, photographer, and art teacher. She lives in Washington Heights, NY.