Subtotal: $
Checkout
-
Editors’ Picks: Demon Copperhead
-
Editors’ Picks: How to Inhabit Time
-
Editors’ Picks: Faith, Hope and Carnage
-
The Gift of Palliative Care
-
Transforming Food
-
On Planting Sugar Maples
-
Letters from Readers
-
Covering the Cover: Pain and Passion
-
Oberammergau’s Broken Vow
-
The Unutterable Silence of God
-
The Mind in Pain
-
In Search of Solace
-
Where Are the Churches in Canada’s Euthanasia Experiment?
-
Letters from a Vanishing Friend
-
The Dust on All the Faces
-
Two Thousand Years of Christian Strangeness
-
God’s Purpose in Your Pain
-
Saving Friends: What I’ve Learned from Insufferable Patients
-
The Speaking Tree
-
The Way of the Passion
-
Chinese Christians’ Costly Allegiance
-
Baptism Means Leaving Home to Find It
-
Felix Manz: The Making of a Young Radical
-
The Return of the Bison
-
The Communion of Empty Hands
-
Poem: “Zeal”
Next Article:
Explore Other Articles:
0
Comments
0
Comments
Post a Comment
Here it is, my dearest winter,
dearer than the fall or spring.
Here it is, my native country,
where I’m always wintering.
Here are soldiers, soft as cotton,
but in khaki head to toe.
I’m to blame for their misfortune,
don’t allow them in my home—
which is why they’re running, running
all across our hard-white land,
like they’ll run along that shoreline
where their days will one day end.
Translated from the Russian by Boris Dralyuk.
Aleksey Savrasov, Winter Road, oil on canvas, ca. 1870
You have ${x} free ${w} remaining.
This is your last free article this month.
We hope you've enjoyed your free articles.
This article is reserved for subscribers.
Already a subscriber? Sign in
Try 3 months of unlimited access. Start your FREE TRIAL today. Cancel anytime.