The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
The Writer’s Almanac for February 27, 201502/27/15
The dead bee lies on the window ledge, a relic, its amber-yellow body barred in black and its head tucked in, dust gathering on every follicle and on the geodesic dome of the head—all tucked in and tucked away, so neat is death. And the many flies...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 26, 2015
Years later they find themselves talking about chances, moments when their lives might have swerved off for the smallest reason. What if I hadn’t phoned, he says, that morning? What if you’d been out, as you were when I tried three times the night...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 25, 2015
Imagine you wake up with a second chance: The blue jay hawks his pretty wares and the oak still stands, spreading glorious shade. If you don’t look back, the future never happens. How good to rise in sunlight, in the prodigal smell of biscuits – eggs...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 24, 2015
Often in the morning the fog is thick over Jersey, Sometimes, like today, lifting later on To reveal with the clarity of a dream The wide river with its traffic, the cluttered far shore, And the hills beyond where hidden towns Send up spires like...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 23, 2015
The snow is falling on the tall pale reeds near the seashore, and even though in places the sky is heavy and dark, a pale sun peeps through casting its yellow light across the face of the waves coming in. Someone has left a bicycle leaning against the...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 22, 2015
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 21, 2015
With one dear friend we go up the highest mountain thousands of feet into the birdless snow and listen to our breaths in the still air for a long time beside the observatories later we stretch out on the dark crumbled lava slope looking west at the...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 20, 2015
Never better, mad as a hatter, right as rain, might and main, hanky-panky, hot toddy, hoity-toity, cold shoulder, bowled over, rolling in clover, low blow, no soap, hope against hope, pay the piper, liar liar pants on fire, high and dry, shoo-fly pie,...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 19, 2015
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
The Writer’s Almanac for February 18, 2015
It was afternoon tea, with tea foods spread out Like in the books, except that it was coffee. She made a tin pot of cowboy coffee, from memory, That’s what we used to call it, she said, cowboy coffee. The grounds she pinched up in her hands, not a...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 17, 2015
Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead. If I’m not, he wants to be...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 16, 2015
Now that the worst is over, they predict Something messy and difficult, though not Life-threatening. Clearly we needed To stock up on water and candles, making Tureens of soup and things that keep When electricity fails and phone lines fall. Igloos...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 15, 2015
Watching the hands of my son kneading challah dough on the maple cutting board in my kitchen, a memory rises of my mother bending over our kitchen table in Flatbush, pressing, stretching, folding flour, water, eggs into a living elastic. Sometimes in...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 14, 2015
Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief....
The Writer’s Almanac for February 13, 2015
The elm tree is our highest mountain peak; A five-foot drop a valley, so to speak. A man’s head is an eminence upon A field of barley spread beneath the sun. Horizons have no strangeness to the eye. Our feet are sometimes level with the sky, When we...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 12, 2015
There’s a tractor in the doorway of a church in Red Wing, Nebraska, in a coat of mud and straw that drags the floor. A broken plow sprawls beggarlike behind it on some planks that make a sort of roadway up the steps. The steeple’s gone. A black...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 11, 2015
Moonlight fills the laurels Like music. The moonlit Air does not move. Your white Face moves towards my face. Voluptuous sorrow Holds us like a cobweb Like a song, a perfume, the moonlight. Your hair falls and holds our faces. Your lips curl into...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 10, 2015
Life is absurd. A man can count on that. After the great triumph, you’re left standing alone, Standing on the corner, holding your hat, Trying to call a friend on your cell phone. Men my age are arrested for public exposure Who only needed to take a...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 9, 2015
Contrails scrawl the sky under which sawhorse-and-lumber tables offer up the hoard and store of fifty years. Neighbors have come to scour house and barn and implement shed. Yes, we’ve come to haul it all away— their nests of pillows and quilts and...
The Writer’s Almanac for February 8, 2015
His heavy body would double itself forward At the waist, swell, and come heaving around To slam at his seatback, making the screws groan And squawk down half the row as it went tilting Under my mother and me, under whoever Was out of luck on the other...
- Saint Paul, MN
611 Frontenac Place
St. Paul, MN 55104651-999-1095