I used to write poetry. I used to write it feverishly, torrents of ideas and emotions tumbling forth, expressing and toying and playing with everything I could feel or see or not quite understand. I used to write it in fits and starts, in seasonal floods of words. I wrote haiku and tanka, free-form and structured. I wrote about what was real and was imagined. I wrote about people, about things, about moments of clarity and periods of confusion. I wrote about loss, about discovery, about muses. I wrote poetry. I fell in love with poets, with poems, with complexity and simplicity. I wrote best on paper, with pen or pencil, the words scribed out in longhand, the brain slowed by the speed of my carelessly wrought letters and words. They were scribbles, ideas, hints of what I struggled to get to. They were poems, good or bad, indifferent or different, meaningful or not. I used to write poems.