Feet In L.A., But My Womb Lives In Jerusalem, My Breath In Vermont
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What more could I ask for than a chair at your bright yellow table, high as clear skies, pine trees, and the dusty red roofs of Jerusalem. Lori Levy's delicate poems oscillate vividly between the sensation of dayenu-moments, when we feel perfectly whole and at peace -and our craving to experience more: more of this life, again, more of this place, or another place, of another moment. Levy merges nostalgia and carpe diem as she recalls important stations of her journeys between Vermont, Israel, and California. To love means to know well: a person, a place, a specific shade of light at a precise...
What more could I ask for than a chair at your bright yellow table, high as clear skies, pine trees, and the dusty red roofs of Jerusalem. Lori Levy's delicate poems oscillate vividly between the sensation of dayenu-moments, when we feel perfectly whole and at peace -and our craving to experience more: more of this life, again, more of this place, or another place, of another moment. Levy merges nostalgia and carpe diem as she recalls important stations of her journeys between Vermont, Israel, and California. To love means to know well: a person, a place, a specific shade of light at a precise hour of the day, the taste of her mother-in-law's kubeh dish. As we follow Levy's memories of her longings, joys, and loves we are reminded of how we can find permanence in every impermanent moment, savored in the present.
