The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Robins migrate, all schoolchildren learn but here on the Cape, every winter a flock forms and stays, long frigid months after their compatriots have flown south. They live deep in the woods on hips and berries wizened by cold. Sometimes they appear here among the feeder birds, one or two almost outcasts. Off Alaska when... Read more »
It seems like the commercials are getting longer, Father said, & the shows are getting shorter. This is the fourth one in a row. Don’t they realize there’s a limit to our patience, & we’re ready to pull the plug on the TV if they continue to take advantage of us? I’d pull it out... Read more »
Not those women who lure sailors onto a reef with their singing and their tresses, but the screams of an ambulance bearing the sick, the injured, and the dying across the rational grid of the city. We get so used to the sound it’s just another sharp in the city’s tune. Yet it’s one thing... Read more »
When you were small, we watched you sleeping, waves of breath filling your chest. Sometimes we hid behind the wall of baby, soft cradle of baby needs. I loved carrying you between my own body and the world. Now you are sharpening pencils, entering the forest of lunch boxes, little desks. People I never saw... Read more »
How far friends are! They forget you, most days. They have to, I know; but still, it’s lonely just being far and a friend. I put my hand out—this chair, this table— So near: touch, that’s how to live. Call up a friend? All right, but the phone itself is what loves you, warm on... Read more »
Almost too late to walk in the woods, but I did, anyway. And stepping aside for a moment from the shadowy path to enter darker shadow, a favorite circle of fir trees, received a gift from the dusk: a small owl, not affrighted, merely moving deliberately to a branch a few feet further from me,... Read more »