Words, poems, are never mortal,
literary legacy beyond our
bonds of earthliness,
our limits.
Poems are of ardent human
tapestries of thoughts mystical.
They never age, we do.
Poets fancy delicate love of
emotions,
their romances passionately
composed,
lost loves mourned in their
pen's flow of permanence,
as their muses wept -
not even the angels
could comfort them.
Debi, the aspired,
born in His divine will.
God decreed her a poetess,
such celestial splendors of
her verses lifted up -
luminous as Roman candles.
His gifts to her generous,
rushing down the font fruitful,
poetess of summer moon's
immersing herself in
the silvering eve tide.
We are the fortunate
bards reading her poems
by the light of the Milky Way.
This tribute poem is dedicated
to Debi Pick Marquette. ~
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