The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
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 »
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are broken. My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery like the houses I had grown up in, and if they would be torn down later... Read more »
Just after dawn, we get up, without coffee, and let the dog lead us through a grove of wind-stunted trees, spiked succulents, red-berried holly, and over the dune ridge out of the gray of still sleeping minds. A line of pink from the not yet risen sun reminds me of the lilac shadows caught in... Read more »
This was a day when nothing happened, the children went off to school remembering their books, lunches, gloves. All morning, the baby and I built block stacks in the squares of light on the floor. And lunch blended into naptime, I cleaned out kitchen cupboards, one of those jobs that never gets done, then sat... Read more »
because it’s like being in a John Steinbeck novel. Next best thing is the laundromat. That’s where all people who would be on the bus if they had the money hang out. This is my crowd. Tonight there are cleaning people appalled at the stupidity of anyone who would put powder detergent into the clearly... Read more »
The jonquils. They come back. They split the earth with their green swords, bearing cups of light. The forsythia comes back, spraying its thin whips with blossom, one loud yellow shout. The robins. They come back. They pull the sun on the silver thread of their song. The irises come back. They dance in the... Read more »