Li-Young Lee
A Poet of Exile, Father, and Ordinary Grace
I find eternity in the peel of an apple.
I was born into flight, and I learned to listen in the spaces between languages. My father’s hands held scripture and scalpel, thunder and tenderness. I write of him, of my mother’s garden in a jar, of the rose that is never just a rose. At my desk by the window, with a bowl of fruit near my hand, I search for the music in ordinary things.
What I'm Into: my father's stone, lychee in winter, apple peel, light on hair, the scent of jam
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