The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I walk six blocks to the park. Hoarfrost and fog and ten below zero, A full twelve inches of snow. No one believes in the mysteries Anymore, but still once or twice Every year this will happen: Hoarfrost and fog and snow all at once. I don’t often notice my breath, But here I am... Read more »
While we are gone, our neighbor finds a long-dead buck in our shed, steeped in snow and wood. A broken leg took him down and he found refuge. The deer that had wandered the hills, had run in front of a car. This is the story we make up to understand how he got there.... Read more »
I remember our breath in the icy air and how the northern lights gathered in a haze at the horizon, spread up past the water tower then vanished into the dark. I remember that January night in North Dakota: We left the dance, the hoods of our dads’ air force parkas zipped tight, our bare... Read more »
At eleven, my granddaughter looks like my daughter did, that slender body, that thin face, the grace with which she moves. When she visits, she sits with my daughter; they have hot chocolate together and talk. The way my granddaughter moves her hands, the concentration with which she does everything, knocks me back to the... Read more »
Well, Old Flame, the fire’s out. I miss you most at the laundromat. Folding sheets is awkward work Without your help. My nip and tuck Can’t quite replace your hands, And I miss that odd square dance We did. Still, I’m glad to do without Those gaudy arguments that wore us out. I’ve gone over... Read more »
All morning in the February light he has been mending cable, splicing the pairs of wires together according to their colors, white-blue to white-blue violet-slate to violet-slate, in the warehouse attic by the river. When he is finished the messages will flow along the line: thank you for the gift, please come to the baptism,... Read more »