Photo As Poem

mikko lag

Mikko lag

They breathe mild the high firs
Enclosed in the snow mantle.
Softer and thick that white splendor
He’s got every branch, away.
The White streets get more quiet:
The rooms collected, more intense.
Chime the hours. It comes
Beaten every baby, shaking.
Over the wing, the crash of a ciocco
That in lightning and rockin, ruins.
In pale shine of sequins
The candid day out there increases,
It becomes everlasting, infinite.
—Rainer Maria Rilke