End-of-the-Year Lullaby

My Dear,

Death is a sheep
slow grazing
in a field of stars.

Our shadows still frolic
in the afternoons
we forgot to stub.

Our mid-nights still burn
ages after
the last embers have died.

Did you not know
that stories that leave
never come back?

Except, o' my love!
when they want
to haunt you down
and turn around.