There is a cat sitting on the table
who would speak, were she able
of things beyond the wit of all mankind

She would know the Sphynx's riddle,
and perhaps recite a little
of the knowlege that Alantians left behind.

She would tell me what she seen
with her eyes of purest green
in the patterens a dancing on the floor

She might first predict the flight
of the fireflys path at night
by simply watching them fly past the door

Also she would know
of the pure white snow
and of the patterens in each little flake

And from here to the kitchen table
she probally would be able
to count each of the steps a spider makes

I wonder when I am gone,
if she composes a little poem
of the sounds of Heavens own choir

Or perhaps gathers all her wits
and while she simply sits
creates a haliarous feline satire

But she never says a word
a meow is often heard
and a purr that echoes in her chest

Perhaps its not the time
to hear the feline mind
or the songs or wisdom they posess

09-Mar-02

Just a poem about Shadow, who was watching me write it at the time