My mind may drift from the walls of my skin But I will not wander too far For those who are pulled by the ivory sun Know that home is a labor of fire And I may have nursed their honey-bright wounds And cradled their rhythms to rest But I am no dreamer I could not keep my hands clean So I will not grieve those bent to receive Seeds that could never be sown And I will not lust those courtesies past They have flickered but not chosen me And when they march by in their motherly smiles Swaying their motherly hips I cannot follow I cannot keep their pace Time has a way of stealing our breath And milking the light from our pores And many will fill their oak barrel wombs With patience instead of desire One cannot curse a crow for her course Or choose where her feathers may fall I am no swallow I am no spring bird
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