The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
A taste for Southern Comfort. Umbrellas: two in a week when I was down to eight bucks in the bank halfway to payday and rain in the forecast, tail end of a hurricane that blew through Cuba, kissed the coast of Florida and ricocheted into Philly where its gray buttocks of sky squatted over us... Read more »
The canyon ledge was steep and stark, the pool below a patch of dark. The canyon wrens careened our names and from the narrow overhangs the lupines leaned and clung, like us, to any purchase they could muster. We grappled down the frowning rock then bolted for the swimming dock, slowed to strip down to... Read more »
How innocent are lovers in the middle of their lives, in the years when their lives thicken and love, reckless love, overtakes them like a summer storm. What can they do but bow to it, they are like trees in the wind, lashed and tossed, they are foolish, weeping in restaurants, making and breaking pacts,... Read more »
After a friend has gone I like the feel of it: The house at night. Everyone asleep. The way it draws in like atmosphere or evening. One-o-clock. A floral teapot and a raisin scone. A tray waits to be taken down. The landing light is off. The clock strikes. The cat comes into his own,... Read more »
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves hang crowded before me in shoals on the heavy branches. When I reach my doorstep I am greeted by the happy shrieks of my children and my... Read more »
A cold wind flows over the cornfields; Fleets of blackbirds ride that ocean. I want to be out of here, go out, Outdoors, anywhere in wind. My back against a shed wall, I settle Down where no one can find me. I stare out at the box-elder leaves Moving frond-like in that mysterious water. What... Read more »