Linda Miller wrote a poem for Bob Wilson’s funeral, and she read it to the congregation that day.  For many of us that was a special moment because Linda had captured so well the person we knew and the perfect setting through which to remember him.

Visiting
(for R.W.)
He’s sitting there
on his wicker chair
high above the stream,
gaunt, goateed, bald head
bronzing in the sun.
Blue eyes aglow, he scolds
his pal Ogawa
for not holding Duffy at bay –
the dog’s mottled muscles
straining at his leash –
greets me (what’s up buttercup?)
talks of books, family, friends,
of chemo (oh, this mortal body!),s
his funeral, his wake.

We listen to the wind
swaying the birches below,
soft rush of falls,
Myosotis’s cold waters
now racing in the creek
beside his home,
through the village,
over the Catskill range
into the Hudson
and finally
to the sea.
Linda Miller