The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Something went crabwise across the snow this morning. Something went hard and slow over our hayfield. It could have been a raccoon lugging a knapsack, it could have been a porcupine carrying a tennis racket, it could have been something supple as a red fox dragging the squawk and spatter of a crippled woodcock. Ten... Read more »
We bought a house made of mud and straw. Thieves stole my sewing machine and my turquoise ring. They stole your music, and the needle you lowered with one steady finger. To lose these things. I learned. We had a little girl and I never let her out of my arms. Summer nights we sat... Read more »
Think in ways you’ve never thought before. If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message Larger than anything you’ve ever heard, Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats. Think that someone may bring a bear to your door, Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose Has risen out of the... Read more »
March. I am beginning to anticipate a thaw. Early mornings the earth, old unbeliever, is still crusted with frost where the moles have nosed up their cold castings, and the ground cover in shadow under the cedars hasn’t softened for months, fogs layering their slow, complicated ice around foliage and stem night by night, but... Read more »
Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake, up to my neck in that most precious dement of all, I found a pale-gray, curled-upwards pigeon feather floating on the tension of the water at the very instant when a dragonfly, like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin, hovered over it, then lit, and rested. That’s... Read more »
There is weather on the day you are born and weather on the day you die. There is the year of drought, and the year of floods, when everything rises and swells, the year when winter will not stop falling, and the year when summer lightning burns the prairie, makes it disappear. There are the... Read more »