he reads

my husband reads to me

at night when the house is falling asleep

and his voice is steady and deep

i cannot describe a heavier peace.

he reads about the miraculous

taking grand risks

going on unthinkable adventures wherein

you lose your life to find it.

i have never been so afraid of this

yet it resonates in long, solid notes

with the bold and bright belief of my youth

which feels encased in corridors

in noble glass displays

whispering of the glory days when

i believed without an alternate scenario

playing in my head.

when he reads, and i must listen

and the scared side of me is confronted

with the faith that was authored strong on my behalf

and cannot be undone

i feel i must, without thinking of it much

take up the ax and sword and fist

and crash the glass into bits

spilling on the floor

because faith trumps fear every time.


sleep II


a comfortable bed

made up of

all the loose ends

left untied

they are bundled together

into a soft nest

in which my heart finds

peace and rest.

and roots

from oaks uprooted

i make my bed in them

and in the shelter

of trees still upright.

the mix of uprooted

and rooted

is only really

a healthy garden.

Memorial Day Weekend

May 23 – May 27, 2013

dusk on highway 58

Wild, Free

Samantha W. C. Ray

(a poem inspired by highway 58)

In the dusk

the world is lit

in an inconceivable hue.

it is magic

enveloping us in it

we drive into it and


to the winds of the roads.

tobacco and corn fields

silhouettes of forest lines

and a sky

so monstrously wide

electric with colors

a spectrum impossible for my hungry eyes.

i am like a child.

a promise, a pulsing

pumping in the scene

streaming past my window

frames of cinematic look-alikes

but I am real, he is real,

and this is real

but only for the coyly passing hour

of twilight.

there is nothing but speeding air between it and me

this world and my world

rushing, cool spring air.

i tilt my head back and draw deeply

of the smell of wet earth

sweet and dark

full of green


setting sun

and cropland.

fields as old as generations

knowing wars & men’s blood,

yielding bread of life

as it is told

by the hand and mouth of God.

I smell Him.

I wash my hair in the wet of the wind

letting it tangle and whip

and my skin, dampen and bathe

until supple in duskened, living air.

I will smell like it.

not clean

but part of this wild earth

this wild world

clearly some enchanted corner

of God’s imagination.