Crow / Swallow

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
Well I may have nursed her honey-bright wounds and cradled her rhythms to rest
But I am no dreamer, I could not keep my hands clean

So I will not grieve for 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
For 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