I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.

A shot of feeling,
A dram from your soul and mind,
Short and sweet, refined.

Whisky in my tea,
When cold bites and wind blows
A deep sip soothes me.

As lovers thrash the confines of their making,
as sunlight yearns to touch the palest eye,
as you would shed the dark and, upon waking,
take to the daring winter by and by

But for the distant music calling true,
soft moonlight now allumes her sight, unblinking:
Nor word, nor touch, nor sight, of lover, you
Who swims gold in the tide, unsinking.

I cannot be your Loki,
My shoulders are short,
Unable to shelve your blame,
A scapegoat I won’t be.

I have both guilt and shame,
My wolf and my serpent,
They circle my soul,
And with your scorn, swallow me whole.

Look into your mirror of trials.
Look at yourself and say three times -
Am I to blame for this injustice?
Accountability is why Loki smiles.