There is a dragon in my flowerbed

There is a dragon in my flowerbed.

It sits, curled up between the flowers it’s crushed.
Sometimes it rolls over them, or stomps,
or breathes burning sparks across the petals.

I sit, curled up beside the flowerbed I’ve made.
Sometimes I stare, or cry,
or try to lift the broken flowers in futile.

The purple heathers, marigolds, and peonies
lay dead, slain by the dragon.
Ruined mashes of their colors.

I do not know what it wants.
To destroy? To sadden?
To make me give up?

Though I wonder, that why,
in all its ruthless play,
the yellow tulips are untouched.