Elegy for the Dragon

When new hooves crunched through old bones
and blackened armor lying in piles
around the tower, she jealously rose
on her haunches and uncurled her tail.

As she lay flailing with the sword
tamped into the softest scales
of her throat, she watched the white knight
climb the maiden’s hair to the high window.

Before she died she snaked her tail
into the cellar and felt the empty nest.
She saw the maiden riding away
with a bulging braided straw bag.

No one ever buries the dragons.
Their towers crumble in less time
than it took to build them, and their bones
turn to powder the next time it rains.

By now, the White Knight has ridden
his horse into a new pile of bones.
He’s dropped his visor, drawn his sword
and let the ring fall from his finger.

By now the Maiden has begun
letting her hair grow long. She’s kept
the baby dragon in the barn and taught it
how to build towers and how to breathe fire.