Author Archives: Matt Tooley

Holy Spirit, speak– my morning shower’s sweet sting. I am naked here.

Too self-conscious to conflate, the critic sits back while the rest Romance.

The mist this morning lay as though it lacked the will to rise. Sun be damned.

His olive-oil voice underwhelmed, but his surfeit of soul kept them rapt.

Few images are as dignified as that of the hawk’s silhouette.

A heart that’s not crushed hardens up. Given time, it becomes else: crusted.

Lord, make my heart as soft as a sunrise and wide as the horizon.