The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
O my love The pretty towns All the blue tents of our nights together And the lilies and the birds glad in our joy The road through the forest Where the surly wolf lived And the snow at the top of the mountain And the little Rain falling on the roofs of the village O... Read more »
All those loose threads from her sewing, trailing off bobbins toward Chattanooga, Nashville, Myrtle Beach, Niagara Falls. She snapped them at the hem with her teeth, those worn hitching posts. She never learned to drive. Didn’t leave Grandma’s yard for thirty years. Her Singer just hummed. She never stopped wearing that engagement ring he gave... Read more »
At dusk, by the irrigation ditch gurgling past backyards near the highway, locusts raise a maze of calls in cottonwoods. A Spanish girl in a white party dress strolls the levee by the muddy water where her small sister plunks in stones. Beyond a low adobe wall and a wrecked car men are pitching horseshoes... Read more »
I have swum too far out of my depth and the sun has gone; the hung weight of my legs a plumb-line, my fingers raw, my arms lead; the currents pull like weed and I am very tired and cold, and moving out to sea. The beach is still bright. The children I never had... Read more »
You know exactly what to do— Your kiss, your fingers on my thigh— I think of little else but you. It’s bliss to have a lover who, Touching one shoulder, makes me sigh— You know exactly what to do. You make me happy through and through, The way the sun lights up the sky— 1... Read more »
Winters when the Olentangy River froze deep enough, we cut the ice into blocks, hauled them on sleds to deep freeze storage. In our town, Shorty Vanetta, the ice man, muscled his pick and saw to cut the twenty-, fifty-, and hundred-pound cakes he hoisted to the thick leather pad on his shoulder. With his... Read more »