Typewriter's Eruption

I pulled the curtains.

When I leaned
over the typewriter,
sparks burnt round holes
in my shirt,
and fire
singed a sleeve.

I dragged the rug away
from the sparks.

In the kitchen
I filled a bucket with water
and returned to the erupting
typewriter.

The typewriter did not seem to be
flying apart,
only erupting.

On my face and hands
I felt the heat
from the caldera.

The yellow fire made
a fast, roaring noise.

The typewriter itself made
rumbling, grinding noise;

the table pitched.

Nothing seemed to require
my bucket of water.

The table surface was ruined,
of course,
but not aflame.

After twenty minutes or so,
the eruption subsided.



Words found here: The Writing Life - Annie Dillard
Prompted by The Found Poetry Review

Day 4 Springtime Walk of Elements

Springtime Walk of Elements

Today, I went for a walk with my dog.
The wind blew through, against, between the trees
making quite a ruckus, but a pleasant one.
Dandelions everywhere.
Clover patches abound.
Feeling the ground beneath my feet,
the wind in my face,
the sun on my skin,
the humidity in my pores,
I am connected to the ground,
the wind,
the sun,
the humidity:
the Earth.