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