Although I love poetic language — the language of the abstract, the unspoken, of simile and metaphor — I don’t often try my hand at poetry. But one day as I entered a wooded glade, the poetic muse struck. I sat on a bench, took out my pencil and paper, and let that rare muse wander as it pleased. The result was a poem that speaks to my past, the idyllic years spent in England when I was four and five years old. So, for better or worse, here it is:

PRINCESS

by Michele Torrey

Flower boxes
bolstered th