The Curve of the Year

The curve of the year is descending
from high summer’s bounty to winter’s dried store
and all of my songs are of ending.

The willow is swaying and bending
and willow leaves carpet the dark river’s shore.
The curve of the year is descending

through cycles of breaking and mending
through loving, despairing, through hearts glad and sore
and all of my songs are of ending.

Inevitable downward trending
begins at the solstice. Make merry then, for
the curve of the year is descending.

The time we were given for spending
was never enough, and we all hoped for more
but all of my songs are of ending.

So sorrow and joy now are blending
to sweetness remembered from long days before
the curve of the year was descending
and all of our songs were of ending.