red blaze of oak on a back road leading to visible fields where no house is
the mustard seed is a window into all that remains unseen on crooked paths overgrown with weeds and twisted roots
the glass eye seeing darkly shall know as it is known and weep in solitude along the crossing that never ends
tribulation is to grace as tides in the ocean opening to rain; deliverance is a maze of cold with snowflakes descending
that cover the surface, obscure its beauty, and leave the traveler in one dimension--calling out, calling out
always the call, lost in the frozen air, alone, adrift, as the seas in equatorial /ethereal splendor
as all other dimensions converge and disappear
Christina Murphy lives and writes in a 100 year-old Arts and Crafts style house along the Ohio River. Her poetry is an exploration of consciousness as subjective experience, and her most recent work appears in PANK, La Fovea, StepAway Magazine, Pear Noir! and Humanimalz. The poets she most admires are Gertrude Stein, T.S. Eliot, and Jane Hirshfield for their undaunted (and impeccable) sense of the interrelationship of language, imagery, and consciousness. Her work has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for the 2012 Best of the Net Anthology.