The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if In your dream You went to heaven And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower And what if When you awoke You had that flower in your hand Ah, what then?
It’s the immemorial feelings I like the best: hunger, thirst, their satisfaction; work-weariness, earned rest; the falling again from loneliness to love; the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March; The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by... Read more »
My visiting tall son is sleepy. His sweet gape brings back his father’s yawn. Seeing our lost husband and lost father suddenly conjured up, I laugh. My son frowns. Does he think it’s at him I’m laughing? The cat opens her mouth to mew. The orphaned piano: it yawns too.
When they were little I read to them at night until my tongue got tired. They would poke me when I started to nod off after twenty pages of Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket. I read (to them) to get them to love reading but I was never sure if it was working or if... Read more »
Sunlight climbs the snowpeak glowing pale red Cold sinks into the gorge shadows merge. Building a fire of pine twigs at the foot of a cliff, Drinking hot tea from a tin cup in the chill air— Pull on sweater and roll a smoke. a leaf beyond fire Sparkles with nightfall frost.