Evelyn Judy Buehler

March 18, 1953 - Chicago
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The Green Armchair

I was a pleasant, conscientious librarian, whose world consisted of books,
As a world of fragrant beauty, can be found in the glossy, honeyed nooks.

Although it was pleasant work and appealing, I was not so very well read,
Like the imperial red sun which stains the skies, soon before we go to bed.

Yet, I was bored and full of longing, for some daring adventure in my life,
Like new adventures in mysterious magic, on nights creamy stars are rife.

Baleful boredom followed after me, like raven shadows on emerald grass,
As fiery sun and pearl moon met twice daily, in a fleeting, pretty impasse.

Good friends called me by name, like valued singularity of an ivory moon,
Or precious moments in garden gorgeous, amidst flowers deeply maroon.

My family kept track of my movements, like glorious time's forever quest,
On a vibrant train of pretty seasons, keeping in slow step with days of zest.

I lived in the house of awakening spring, and budding, blooming revelation,
Where the stately fir trees shivered, within their windy, prominent location.

Neighbors brought fresh tulips and hyacinths, scents and beauty in a vase,
Creating impromptu coffee breaks and lunches, in a glad and sunny space.

Sweet summer nights were warm, and the moon peered through the trees,
And buttery days were full of colors, midst melodious birdsong rhapsodies.

The cool rain brought green freshness, when purple butterflies were hiding,
As the crickets took violet, peony evening, when daubed stars were gliding.

I'd bought a comfortable, new green armchair, that I'd placed by a window,
Where I could relax, enjoying mellow hours, before watching the fireflies go.

I found that cozy, peaceful atmosphere, to be hugely conducive to reading,
Like stars glittering golden from afar, when orange-ruby skies are bleeding.

My reading took me to faraway places, sundry places, imaginary and real,
With thick canopies of sunlit clouds, or hued planets and moonlight appeal.

Due to the rich imaginations of authors, my daring adventures were many,
Like green springtime's adventures in color, that pale winter may only envy.

For it is not the means of transport, but the quality of the trip that matters,
Like a whirling, twirling, colorful journey, of each autumn leaf that scatters.

Aged years have passed since then, and I no longer thirst after adventure,
For I've been everywhere and done everything, as books are my quencher.

And now I know everything there is, and I have visited other cerise worlds,
And I have seen every elegant thing ever, like a satin moon robed in pearls!
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