In fields of quilted snow, I see

two birds exiled from worlds of warmth,

ruffling white feathers in white fields

of shadows from a single tree.

As ivory beaks spill icy sun,

birds stress their voiceless, vibrant plea

for tropic winds and white-tipped waves

to veil this painting winter-spun.

Like driftwood pieces flecked with foam,

a sign of time in times undone,

these frozen shells of former selves

shed hopeless lives in search of home.

In these, their fields of lonely snow,

iced minds see where iced eyes roam.

Despair floods frozen, whitened scenes

and white becomes their private woe.

As snow quilts birds in massive whites,

their instincts now begin to know

that white birds in white snow sing rites and epitaphs are just hindsights.