The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
From a window, the boss calls to us where we load his truck with bricks. “Turn around fellas—look.” A pheasant wades through the brown grass across the street, vanishing and emerging from the tangle. A shed leans near a phone pole. Bumpers glint from the weeds. Blocks from the old foundation angle through the earth.... Read more »
Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks. Let us consider the view: a house where white... Read more »
That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by... Read more »
I won’t drink wine tonight I want to hear what is going on not in my own head but all around me. I sit for hours outside our house on Blind Mountain. Below this scrap of yard across the ragged old pasture, two horses move pulling grass into their mouths, tearing up wildflowers by the... Read more »
Just before the green begins there is the hint of green a blush of color, and the red buds thicken the ends of the maple’s branches and everything is poised before the start of a new world, which is really the same world just moving forward from bud to flower to blossom to fruit to... Read more »
My mother’s playing cards with my aunt, Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game my grandmother taught all her daughters. Midsummer: too hot to go out. Today, my aunt’s ahead; she’s getting the good cards. My mother’s dragging, having trouble with her concentration. She can’t get used to her own bed this summer. She... Read more »