Since elementary school, Susan Sandstrom Ellis has been writing in many forms: journaling, poems, songs, short stories, and a novel. She has a Master’s degree in Spiritual Traditions and Ethics as well as a Master of Divinity. Her studies showed her how the intersection of spirituality and pastoral care help people feel less alienated in an often alienating world. She loves to garden, sing, play guitar, and hang out with her husband and their kitty, Trini. Her poems have appeared in Soul Poetry & Prose, January House, Rough Diamond Poetry and ELLIE.
Thunder cleared its throat and
lightning sparked–a white
whip–and miles of light rippled
across the hanging black curtains
known as The Sky.
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Underneath the pulsing heartbeat of
the known and unknowable lies a
wrinkle of hope that whispers to
me: When I hold a flower but forget
to put it in water, the flower will
always find its way, because there
is one common brightness between
the flower and the water. And so, just
as if I wonder myself into your heart,
I am a fawn stepping onto your path
and looking to see if you have a stream
from which I can drink.