Culling: A Poem

Some moments are so bittersweet
They taste like a drop of honey on the tongue, and
A pinprick on the finger,
The bee’s sting, reminding me that
Beauty comes with a price.

They linger, these moments, through the dawn
Foggy, settling into the valley for the night.
They creep, these moments, culling memories from the field.
Or they startle me at twilight
A pronged buck, wide-eyed; taunting me with breaths
No more to be drawn.

The rift grows, the stitches pull;
Though some wounds gape, too severe to be mended.
And I miss you.
The well you dug in me draws no more water;
The songs we made are still.