paint spattered,
caressed patina
on an easel
she lets go
reluctantly,
an easel she
unfolds
lovingly.
Backgrounds prepared,
light, twilight and fire
for Words & Music to
light upon, bird on a wire.
Raven come from
cedar treetops,
brushes preening
three portraits,
poets Anita Boyle,
James Bertolino,
then
Cheryl Wheeler,
called back
for another show.
Lines in the fire, lines upon water and air,
lines of an earthy audience reflected.
Wheeler there in the round,
supported, surrounded.
Raven paints with light,
like sunset and sunrise,
never the same show twice.
Poets who speak
their words beyond
quiet voice on page
are brave,
change
as words might
on blue air
of twilight.
"I liked that they spoke
with no trickery,"
said
coyote union man.
"Sweeter than chocolate
covered pomegranate seeds,"
said
sparkly-eyed woman.
Gentle are words
a couple may share,
brave when they cast
them into the air.
Collide together
a Queen of Hearts,
tender,
and a finger-wavin',
cat-reincarnate-terror,
Wheeler,
cruisin' near sixty.
While the world seems bound
for Hell in a Hand-Cart,
she found our Pacific Northwest
secret;
in gentle rain
we pour
our hearts,
fluid.
She pours taste
of her new song,
two verses,
vulnerable,
she pulled us
into it
---intuit---
moment of time
unscripted,
gifted.
Artist painted Artist
across sunset paper,
brushes fanned ember
and softened her lines,
lines that were
softened by
rain in Portland,
warmed by
worn and faithful
friends, there at
the farthest shore.
Wheeler's likeness
headed east
to Montana,
while the real deal
wheeled north,
cruisin' near sixty.
Raven dances in cedar,
three portraits of light
and the night's magic
had pleased her.
