The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I learned from my mother how to love the living, to have plenty of vases on hand in case you have to rush to the hospital with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole grieving household,... Read more »
Even near the very end the frail cat of many years came to sit with me among the glitter of bulb and glow tried to the very last to drink water and love her small world would not give up on her curious self. And though she staggered — shriveled and weak still she poked... Read more »
My daughter and I paddle red kayaks across the lake. Pulling hard, we slip easily through the water. Far from either shore, it hits me that my daughter is a young woman and suddenly everything is a metaphor for how short a time we are granted: the red boats on the blue-black water, the russet... Read more »
Here floats the mind on summer’s dock. The knees loose up, hands dither off, the eyes have never heard of clocks. The mind won’t feel the hours, the mind spreads wide among the hours, wide in sun. Dear sun, who gives the vision but is not the vision. Who is the body and the bodies... Read more »
You can take Vermont, the edge of the woods in tears even with spring’s sky-blue gown as you prowl through those trees bird whistle on a lanyard and compass tucked in your camouflage pants. I want Montana for myself, some little-known hot spring, glimpse of wild horses running, notebooks, novels, no plans as the sky... Read more »
May time grant you the lasting memory of the summer night on Jonas Ridge when we were walking the dogs, late— the white rail fence, our guide. When we turned back toward the cabin, darkness pressed against our faces and a host of fireflies flashed in the mist settling on the fields, blinking green from... Read more »