In the winter of my breaths
I hack ice from buckets, hammer blows
precise, dislodge grief;
I have buried too many in my time,
unnecesarry corpses, even the old ones,
called before I was ready.

Fangs and needles to the job,
predator or vet, in the end the same;
souls ascend wingless, effortless flight--
I am alone with the matter:
the fur, the paws, the mane
still warm, maggot-free, and waiting.

Waiting for shovels and petals,
the release of buckles on halters,
collar tag silence--

Oh I wish living was as simple
as digging dirt
for flowers yet to come.
   
 

Tigger Montague lives on a farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with a variety of horses, ponies, dogs, cats, and two wolves. It is Nature and the intricate balance of subtleties and piercings that inspire his daily life, his writing, and his soul. Tigger writes: "When the wind speaks, I listen; when the wolves howl, I howl too."

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