The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I listen, and the mountain lakes hear snowflakes come on those winter wings only the owls are awake to see, their radar gaze and furred ears alert. In that stillness a meaning shakes; And I have thought (maybe alone on my bike, quaintly on a cold evening pedaling home), Think!— the splendor of our life,... Read more »
We stood at attention as she moved with a kind of Groucho shuffle down our line, her trained music teacher’s ear passing by our ten- and eleven-year-old mouths open to some song now forgotten. And as she held her momentary pause in front of me, I peered from the comer of my eye to hers,... Read more »
When your privacy is beginning over, How beautiful the things are that you did not notice before! A few sweetclover plants Along the road to Bellingham, Culvert ends poking out of driveways, Wooden corncribs, slowly falling, What no one loves, no one rushes towards or shouts about, What lives like the new moon, And the... Read more »
When you’re young, and in good health, you can imagine living in New York City, or Nepal, or in a tree beyond the moon, and who knows who you’ll marry: a millionaire, a monkey, a sea captain, a clown. But the best imaginers are the old and wounded, who swim through ever narrowing choices, dedicating... Read more »
When that oriole whistled from the orchard it seemed to be frankly asking, You got a problem with that? Its orange and black was brash as a high-school letter sweater. No problem, no problem, except it seemed like Saturday night under the old Rialto’s marquee again. At least until a rubythroat running a quality-control check... Read more »
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did... Read more »