For Deborah

I wote this poem in honor of my favorite libaraian ever, Deborah Lundbech, who has just retired.

****
Bluebird,
Bluebird,
At my window

The verse,
Sends warm
Fulfilling sensations
Into my heart.
Attached,
Are treasured memories,
All harboring moments
From time spent
At the New Haven public library
With no other
Than the
Amazing,
Kind,
Thoughtful,
Caring,
Intelligent,
Deborah the Librarian.

Now before I go on
To sing her praises
I must first share
One of my earliest
And clearest memories
Of her at the library…
*****
Young heads block my view.
Shifting to rug burned knees,
My line of sight cleared,
I listen…

Bluebird,
Bluebird,
At my window

A woman sings,
As the guitar
Sitting on her knee
Plays along in blissful harmony.
The rocking chair beneath
Gently swings to the beat.
Her straight curtain of flowing hair
Matching the tempo,
Allowing glances at the wide smile
That never left her lips.
Eyes,
Wandering from child to child
Sharing a moment
Making a connection.
At long last her joyful eyes meet mine, 
the last note of song echoing,
tickling book pages on the shelves.

In that moment,
That memory was sealed.
Preserved in high class,
Still vivid
To this day.
*****
A robbery has been committed 
To my heart.
Revoking my privilege
Of seeing you,
Creating more memories
For the past year and a half!

My sanctuary
My peace palace
My home away from home
Stolen away
Wrenched directly from my grasp.

After that
All I could do was reminisce.
*****
I can never thank you enough
For all that you have done.
Your book picking expertise,
Sent me on many unforgettable adventures.
Library loans,
While a hassle,
You complained not.
Hesitation,
You had none.
Always quick to suggest, 
Recommend,
And just talk.
For this I am thankful.

Each book you placed in my hands,
Became an extension of myself.
Completely immerses in every tale,
I breathed the same air as the characters.
Learning lessons,
Dangerous adventures,
Feats of courage,
Pits of doubt.
I’ve endured it all,
Friends in literature by my side
(more like me by theirs).
****
You know more about me than most.
For I am more myself near books
Than anywhere else.
You, me, literature,
No water could ever put out our flame.

I am perpetually thankful 
For the role you have played
In my literary life.
Now you are retired,
CONGRATS!!!
Yet selfishly 
I wait,
For the moment you declare
It was all
A misunderstanding .     .      .       .