You Sang a Song

The door snaps shut 
you click your heels, 
begins another day, 
eight hours more 
you sell yourself 
in the wake of fleeing ideal.

This is the way you've chosen 
against your will once strong, 
your ardor becoming frozen 
you've sung your very last song.

The winter has come, 
your song gone south 
but you've stayed here with your nest. 
Contrary to what you'd like to think
you’re much like most of the rest.

Engraved in aging memory 
is the springtime of your song. 
Enduring the blizzards, the cold northwest winds, 
the echo remains forever strong.

The door is closed. 
The shades are drawn. 
You've closed yourself within. 
And I outside 
keep listening 
for the song gone with the wind. 

June 1982