The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
At almost four in the afternoon, the wind picks up and sifts through the golden woods. The tree trunks bronze and redden, branches on fire in the heavy sky that flickers with the disappearing sun. I wonder what I owe the fading day, why I keep my place at this dark desk by the window... Read more »
When our daughter was a baby, she’d sometimes cry and cry, raw-throated nightingale heavy on evening’s shoulders, no solace in the rocking lullaby, warm milk, blue velvet blanket, nor in the whispered words, the quiet shush we’d loose while pacing back and forth across the wooden floors. Until one night, by chance, we needed diapers,... Read more »
What can l say, now that summer’s gone, with the weight of its heat, its thick blanket of humidity, the cacophony of zinnias, marigolds, salvia? Now the sky is clear blue and cloudless, that sure one-note that can only mean October. You’re gone. The leaves turn gold in the calendar’s rotisserie, giving up their green,... Read more »
My only purpose this moment is looking at a lizard. Does he know he’s not alone? He breathes with tiny push-ups, his skin all hairline caverns soaking up the sun. I doubt, alive, I’m liable to get closer to timelessness than this, looking at a little lizard breathing.
1932 In a time of national crisis we learned to curtsy to point a patent leather toe bend a knee over our Mary Janes with satin hairbows slipping down our cheeks In the Knights of Columbus Hall the floor fresh-shined gleamed through auras of stale cigar taint of Lysol numbing the glamour of sweetpea wrist-corsages... Read more »
Up and down the small streets, in which no two houses are exactly alike, widows of all ages sit alone playing solitaire, or knitting, or sometimes baking, left in the big, empty houses. Here are Mrs. Montgomery, Mrs. Pilching, Mrs. Wolf, and Mrs. Pelletier, all at once— in a section of nine houses, four widows.... Read more »