On the beach, the belly of an empty mussel

reveals a map of the universe—

great plumes of interstellar dust,

frozen comets with sweeping cerulean tails,

trillions of stars paint-splattered across an endless dark,

planets of ice and fire and terracotta dust,

clouds of polychromatic gas spilling out of nursing nebulae.

It washes gently away, 

along with all the others. 

Every hillside preens in a carpet

of plum blossom, peonies, tulips,

arranging and rearranging blooms

to best complement its contours.

Every river is a poet, inscribing

major works on rockface and gorge,

writing lesser verse on reeds,

reciting in the running water rush.

So this is the Middle Kingdom.

Eternal. Ruled over by dragons.

You came here in your youth

after a series of misadventures.

You never tried, will never try

to leave. Why would you go?

Before you knew only temples

built to honor dragon lords.

Now you see their glory direct:

power and dance and lithe beauty,

pearls clasped under their chins.

How they shape cloud and wind.

Like the rivers, like the hills,

you refuse the mortal world,

refuse family for the merest

passing glance from a dragon.