Lark
When you flew in for the winter,
you were like a lark, looking
for a place to burrow before the snows.
I searched in the storm, downpour
clouding the windows, fogging up
words traced on the mirror. I love you
Too — soon we’re searching for another excuse
to cross the empty space of months,
changing seasons in the light of our eyes. I couldn’t
Go on, my little lark. Dream of ice melting, of the sun
opening back up to let you in as summertime sighs
over the ground. We planted seeds while you were
Here. A place in front of the window, water from
my own cup. Tilting towards the sky, grey with afternoon
thunder, waiting for the next raindrops. We could hardly see
Through the fog: lightning. Thunder. A call from home,
asking why you love me more. Thunder: closer. Urgent,
the voices picked up. You went outside to talk. Thunder: shaking
The house. You’re leaving, regaining the sky. I turn
the mirrors against the walls, like I’m losing you.
(Childhood) Home
Cold air seeps in
through the window,
cracked or not
We find ourselves
born, and born again
Old wires make for
new lights in the sparks
they set, and old wood
warns of coming down
As those before us
passed here, so shall we
The floors make music
when we step on them,
and we dare not step
where we could fall
We draw breath through
these breathing walls —
Plaster, bones, blood
and brick.
Rebecca Ruvinsky is a student and emerging writer in Orlando, Florida. She kept a streak of writing a poem a day for almost five years, with work published in Wizards in Space, Prospectus: A Literary Offering, Sylvia Magazine, Underland Arcana, Funicular Magazine, and others. She was also a finalist in the 2020 Lex Allen Poetry Prize. She loves baking cookies, watching rocket launches, and listening to music too loud. She can be found at @writeruvinsky.
photo by Daniel McCullough and David Thielen (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 