Evelyn Judy Buehler

March 18, 1953 - Chicago
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History Repeats Itself

I was an accomplished librarian, who took pleasure from written words,
As opera singers find their pleasure, in the halls where music is heard.

I was well matched to such absorbing work, knowing it was worthwhile,
Like stars traveling a long, long way, lending endless sparkles per mile.

I lived in the San Francisco Bay area, a location of beauty and charms,
Like the fragrant springtime blooms, strewing as wildly as bee swarms!

The library was near my home, and I would walk there in fair weather,
As the miser who keeps close at hand, a secretly stashed gold treasure.

I was charmed by the vast possibilities, existing in the realm of books,
As the facets of a brilliant diamond, gives a myriad of diverse outlooks.

I loved helping so many people, to find just the book that was needed,
And felt that I was dispersing knowledge, when once I had succeeded.

The olive days were elongating, like vibrant colors on the sunset skies,
And were filled with a drone of bees, and beating wings of dragonflies.

I had just arrived at work, and was engaged in the rare books section,
Placing tomes upon the higher shelves, of this fine, priceless collection.

We'd had a few quake tremors, as leaves flurry when wind remembers,
And another came on suddenly, disturbing those fine literary treasures.

One large volume fell from high above, striking me hard upon my head,
And I blacked out for a few moments, like skies after sun has gone red.

Soon coming around, I saw a history book, one hundred fifty years old,
And as I leafed casually through it, I was wondering what stories it told.

But I had no time for pondering, so I quite soon resumed literary work,
As glazed sun goes back to shining, after the tempest has gone berserk.

That night, the tome invaded my dreams, with a strange history of itself-
From the time that it was first bound, until it plunged from the top shelf!

The fascinating book was bound in leather, and finely crafted with pride,
Like the pride of nature's palette, in the trees where summer has dyed.

Its first home was a university, surrounded by curious and eager faces,
And I saw the faces age a bit, 'til graduation took them to other places.

This scenario was replayed ofttimes, over a course of three generations.
Then the school was closed, and all books sold, with bright expectations.

Even in my dream I marveled, at a history of history that was revealed,
To I, a true lover of books, each with its own alluring history concealed!

The volume next found a luxurious home, in a cherished private library,
And it was read through and through, on sunlight evenings very cherry.

This person touched so many others, by writing riveting history novels,
Which fired the imaginations of many, who achieved their own marvels.

Upon the death of this beloved friend, there was a massive estate sale,
And it found its present home in our library, still around to tell the tale!
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