The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
In the photograph the boy is ecstatic, set free, a young king, everything ahead of him. There is nothing he can’t have if he wants it and he wants it, as does his friend beside him. They are ready now to ride off together and slay dragons, rescue the world. It’s all here in the... Read more »
Take the day, for instance: How the ruff of sun’s first light shoulders the night aside and when I butt my morning cigarette, my absolute last cigarette, I begin to chew my cuticles and why my next-door neighbor drops by daily to cry about her ex who ran off with some little slut he met... Read more »
Decades after I quit, I still dream of lighting a cigarette and even in sleep feel my fingers curve to grip the filter tip of a Newport, recall the arc I traced, groove of hand to lip. Do I miss smoking or the girl who smoked, who tucked a buck in the pocket of her... Read more »
This year we have two gorgeous yellow warblers nesting in the honeysuckle bush. The other day I stuck my head in the bush. The nestlings weigh one-twentieth of an ounce, about the size of a honeybee. We stared at each other, startled by our existence. In a month or so, when they reach the size... Read more »
I just remembered a serious argument. On my seventy-fifth birthday I had the firm sense that I was a hundred seventy-five. She disagreed. “Look at your driver’s license,” she said. I said you know the state of Montana took my license from me. She went to my briefcase and got out my passport. “You’re a... 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.