By Brent Johnson, Clam Gulch
Could we hear cottonwoods whispering soft?
The voice must be Debbie’s somewhere aloft.
Ole cutie owl hootie-hoo’s to the dove
beams like a Tammy all mushy with love.
Debbie once sang with thick clouds in the air
they reckoned like riddles, limp to despair.
Music with feeling ignores a dumb brain
as flowers of velvet, sing in the rain.
Forever has risen, now in plain view
yesterday fades as those days always do.
Mince not the meaning ‘cause Debbie you’re it
a wonder — not that easy to forget.