A Short One

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I've had a lot of homework recently and also some very busy weekends, so I apologize for not having any features recently. But I've managed to find some time to do a short one this weekend.

In other news, I hate doing speeches. And in addition, speech is such an ugly word. It sounds like a sticky, slowly rotting peach with a bunch of flies swarming around it. Blech.
Needless to say, I'm dreading Monday, when I'll have to present.

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Fall from GraceNo one ever said the fall
    had to hurt.
Perhaps it's quick;
a terminal velocity dive
  into feather-down
   meadows.
Or maybe it's slow;
    a slip through
       space and time's
          molasses.
    Or it could be backwards;
grace from the fall. On your socks, I swear.Step on me daily. Use me as you like.
Hop and jump and run. I'll pedal your bike.
On land and on water, I'll protect your feet.
Each day of my life, the ground I can meet.
Let me be your shield, the guardian of your soles.
Always count on me though time might give me holes.
Cause even if you'll trade me for a brand new pair.
Each time you need to go, I still can take you there.
Dear MomDear Mom,
[I know this really isn't a letter like I promised, but you should be used to me giving less then I say I will]
I'm going to feel bad, throwing you into the ocean.
I'm going to have to clench my teeth, close my eyes, and grip my hip [because you're there, forever; in jagged scar tissue with upside down mountain capped M's and a blocky O, you're there, forever.] to keep myself from diving in after you and gathering you back together with the finest cheesecloth, molding you back together and filling you with all the beautiful things you've been drained of. I'll jam sea glass in your eye sockets and replace your weak bird bones with coral, I'll fill your lungs with saltwater [because oxygen obviously never worked; I almost miss that respirator keeping me awake at night] and wrap you with seaweed to hold you together again.
And I'll let you speak by jamming the truths to all my lies I've told you down your throat. I will whispersobconfess all my dirty deeds. I will tell yo September 22    I open the cover and inhale the scent of new crisp pages.
    I touch the door, my fingers tracing the carved lines in the solid wood. The chin, the nose, the hairline. His only known portrait.
    "What did he really look like?" I wonder to myself. A shadow portrait can only divulge so much information, after all.
    Pages slide passed one another.
    Wind lightly salted by the Atlantic brushes against my face as I look around the town of New London, Connecticut. Breathing in the air, my nose crinkles at nearby farms – or was it that farmer? – mixed with fresh leatherworks and a smithy around the corner, intertwined with an open produce market. I relax as fumes of warm bread reaches me from someone's oven through an open window.
    I turn and walk away in search of a certain building. It should be red, I think, small but with two stories. Before long

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