The clover patch at night
bends beneath stars.
Shadows, dark and sweet,
shaped heart-wild,
fairies biting and pinching,
dancing their trio of leaves,
tiny foot-paws soft against soft.
Eyes that flint
with an edge of insanity.
Worshipping the small, delicate
the secret nectar
of the magic hour.
Braiding myself with Loki
hurts in the best sense.
I twirl down and weave rounds
as He spins me,
dancing.
I leave my skin
against the grain of the wood,
My hair a carpet under foot.
Sheared to skull
His to fill
My lips igniting offerings.
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