Perhaps my love of poetry came about when I was three. Eyes wide, world closed. Heart warm, brain cold.

 On another hand, I think, my love of rhyme and meter came about when I was a little bit bigger. When the words of Frost swept me away, ideal and impressionistic in every way, and the dismal, dreary words of Poe touched a dark corner stone I had never known.

 Even older, I suppose, when I began to understand the very complex complexities of the medium I breathe and drink like mead. Intoxicated. Pen to paper, paper to pen.

 Trials and tribulations were abound

 Rigid studies of poems made sonorous

 Years of learning turned life into sweet sounds

 Insipid days are now glorious

 Stop not for a beat Aria, my love

 May my soul be uplifted like a dove

 Everything poetry does is intelligent by design but romantic by virtue. Poetry is life, poetry is tragedy, poetry is love, poetry is laughter, poetry is heartache, poetry is death. Poetry is me.