Nathalie Kramer was born in Paris and grew up in France-Corsica, and California. Her stories have appeared in Santa Monica Review, and Faultline, among others. She was a Writer-in-Residence at the Annenberg Beach House in CA. She lives on the Southern Vermont and New Hampshire border where she teaches and writes. Nathalie is currently working on her auto-novel, Californie.
This place I dream of
olive and fig trees.
The chestnut trunk’s hollows in which I stood
still as blankets of lichens
immovable on bark.
Shepherds held a circle
their voices harmonized.
A hand cupped. An ear. A seashell hand that steadied each
voice.
From inside the tree
I find my father’s timbre.
And then it’s lost
mixed and harmonized with the early morning brume
the other shepherds ‘voices
the goats’ bells.
In my mind, ochre tones
are high stone steps,
and my mother is at the top.
A roof. She is there, her back to me
she looks out to the far blue
her gold and gray hair moves
flickers of sunlight that splice with sky
like breath.
Then
at the top of the stone’s steps
we look for something with a lid.
Three glass jars.
We pour my father in, each one.
his ash feels rough not like ash,
uneven like a life.
the clouds and the sea fought
I rode off them
took turns
held
my breath
low
into the Mediterranean’s sea floor
high above granite peaks.
Poetry in this post: © Nathalie Kramer
Published with the permission of Nathalie Kramer