More on: Roger Williams

Roger Williams, 1678 As I was weeding in my squash patch, I heard the braying, as of an ass, down at the nether end of Towne Street, the first I have heard since England, and I do love those raggedy-faced beasts. A crowd down there was milling about some distraction, which parting revealed the poor,…

Hold up your palms to the darkness little one; be pierced with light. Come here for what, for irony and progeny, short years of rising up and passing on? As if there were an end to transience, as if it could ever pass for shelter or resting place. Reason is lost upon such reasonableness when…