Diana
A young bud with sprout
Too soon violently trampled
In our family garden,
A promise broken;
Leaving us to wonder
What might have bloomed;
Mourning the missing fragrance
And colors that would have
Shone vibrant and proud
In their own way
Had not the darkness come,
Consoled in knowing that what
Makes beauty is the
Fleeting moment we share.
-June Cressy,
read at vigil Oct. 14
