Tabby paws on needle carpet soft
Telephone poles stand hymnal tall
Whiskers trace the pine-scented loft
Cross-armed shadows bless her silent call
She walks the pine line where the wires hum
Old songs rise from fur and forest floor
No choir loft can hold this hymn she sings
Just pines and poles and one small open door
Paperback scent clings to winter coat
Each pole a verse she memorizes slow
Dew drops turn to grace on whisker note
Wood and wire script beneath her claw
She walks the pine line where the wires hum
Old songs rise from fur and forest floor
No choir loft can hold this hymn she sings
Just pines and poles and one small open door
Altos in the branches breathe with her
She knows the liturgy of wind and wire
Breath visible in lamp-light silver stir
Every creak a psalm she sings too true
She walks the pine line where the wires hum
Old songs rise from fur and forest floor
No choir loft can hold this hymn she sings
Just pines and poles and one small open door
Bookshop bell still rings in dream-memory
Warm paper smell beneath the fluorescent glow
Pages turn like pine cones in the current
Pine sap gospel only she can know
No organ swells no stained glass filtered light
Just transformer buzz and owl's low call
Her small heart beats in triple meter time
The holiest music makes no sound at all
Dawn paints gold on cross-armed silhouettes
Carries forest hymns in matted fur
She turns her tail toward familiar shelves
One cat's communion with the wires themselves
She walks the pine line where the wires hum
Old songs rise from fur and forest floor
No choir loft can hold this hymn she sings
Just pines and poles and one small open door
She walks the pine line where the wires hum
Old songs rise
