All night it fell like threshed pulp,
a whiteness unseen except in lamplight,
while everywhere the sleepers dreamed

in swirling words and drifting pictures.
Each dreamer had something to say,
and beneath the covers fingers twitched

in a warmth as black as graphite.
If the storm was lonely, it was only
because it knew it would never see

what would be written on the great page
morning would display when the dreamers,
dreaming still, stepped into the story of the day.