Deep in the snow drifts,
empty shells,
the impression of the maker,
lost in the weather,
the blizzard of life,

I worship through the snow
and upon the ice,
meals without a pinch of spice.

Seals and whales and maybe bear,
are what provide my fare,
blubber, food, and oil,
it is for what I hunt and toil.

Sustenance and clothing derived
from these things I survive,
when the sun refuses to shine,
in my igloo, I recline.

Blocks of snow insulate,
keep us from a frozen fate,
a bit of meat on my plate,
rubbing noses with my mate.