The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
because the blue hills are like the shoulder and slopes of your back as you sleep. Often I slip a hand under your body to anchor myself to this earth. The yellow mustard rises from a waving sea of green. I think of us driving narrow roads in France, under a tunnel of sycamores, my... Read more »
First thing, she arranged us in rows at the front of the classroom, tallest in back, smallest in front. Next, she pulled the shining pitch- pipe from the hidden placket in her black linen habit, put it to her lips, then held it in front of her, put it back to her lips and blew.... Read more »
I My child and I hold hands on the way to school, And when I leave him at the first-grade door He cries a little but is brave; he does Let go. My selfish tears remind me how I cried before that door a life ago. I may have had a hard time letting go.... Read more »
In the name of the daybreak and the eyelids of morning and the wayfaring moon and the night when it departs, I swear I will not dishonor my soul with hatred, but offer myself humbly as a guardian of nature, as a healer of misery, as a messenger of wonder, as an architect of peace.... Read more »
He has on an old light grey Fedora She a black beret He a dirty sweater She an old blue coat that fits her tight Grey flapping pants Red skirt and broken down black pumps Fat Lost Ambling nowhere through the upper town they kick their way through heaps of fallen maple leaves still green-and... Read more »
My mother, 18, the summer before she married, lounges belly-down in the sun, books and grass all around, her head on her hands propped at a jaunty angle. She smiles in a way I’ve never seen at something beyond the camera. This photograph I come back to again and again invites me to re-write her... Read more »