To Michelle
I used to kiss
your eyelids,
cheeks, tip of
your nose
Cheeks warm
flushed smile,
contageous
blond locks
Grown, sun
streaked
fingers locked
in mine we
strolled
Pointing your tiny
finger southward
we watched the
mountains grow
To Marc Hunter
You are no longer
singing beautiful songs
You are silent due
to operation if only
1 could hear one
tranquil note I would
climb onto a star
and herald your song
because of this
you were not just
an old classmate
but a bell on a
jingling tree, yet
now a buoy without
a boat that lingers
in a blue-green bay