Wrm was young as dragons go
and happier than most,
content with a fountain
when no sea lay near,
holding no raging ambition
for priceless pearls,
learned philosophical debates
or his own emperor.
 
He fancied himself
but a minor poet with only
one slim chapbook to his name.
His mother and father
despaired of him, throwing
the Yi Jing sticks
over and over, though
Hexagram 27
(as it had since before his birth)
inevitably appeared…

“one who goes his own way
and considers it enough”

©2023 Christine Irving, “Sun Strokes; An Illuminated Pastice of Poetry & Prose”