My Teacher
Sharon was a vessel
That held an offering
Form, light, color
The mark of material
Time expanded by finding your mind
She's an image creator
Sharon praised
Or looked up and smiled
When something was worth seeing
She said, "The form that
Repeats in this, the slot
Is placed in a good way."
She would allow me
The opportunity to
Lose my burdens
Inside the making of shapes
Projects proposed to be solved
With her I felt more than saw.
They speak of the artists eye
But Sharon seemed to connect
To the artists skin
As your hands reach
To shape and hold
I feel her here.
Pots always remind me of her
The house with the hangings
Of her sewn cloth, molas, burlaps
Her piano
Her lovely self
wrapped in a ballet
Sharon gave me many
Experiences making
Waxed crayon resists, candles,
Drawing, forms, chalk
Prints of every kind
Turned on her press
I enjoyed her own art
The most, her mind
Her beautiful heart
The patience, the warmth
The uncomfortable sense
I had of her honesty
That mattered most of all.
No easy thing for a vessel to hold
A cup of the truth
Given in hands
Making that work fearing
It might end
Holding onto this from her
Sliding through my hands
The once long ago
I trudge through time
Bearing this into my world
Into everyday
Her heart carried
The gift of my teacher.
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