And that is the end of the story, the fires
Out, the smoke curling up to the sky in a whirl
Of dust and sulfuric decay, the land a color
Unhealthy in the meekest sense (dry dead gray), leaves
Burnt and rotting on the pit, everything wet
And cold.  I sit here, eating a rotted peach.

The smoke is dissipating, my half-eaten peach
Tossed to the side to feed the primordial underground fires
That burn over the centuries its tired flesh, juices spilling wet
Across Monsieur Death’s leg; he’s annoyed, and stands in a whirl
Of indignation, holding a lit match towards a pile of dry leaves,
Threatening to begin again, to bring the color

Of the forest a shade deader, to make Color
The dominant force here. “Get me a peach,”
I order, “A ripe one, with the stem still attached to leaves
That are still green.”  “There are none.  The fires
Have destroyed them all,” he replies, smirking, ready to whirl
In a dance and flurry of black robes, his scythe wet

From the rain that put the fires out.  A wet
Cloth appears in my hand, and I wipe the faux color
From his face, draining it into a half-full glass. A whirl
Of brilliant paper flames dance around a peach
Tree, appearing from nowhere, unharmed by the fires
Of Armageddon.  I open a book, and the shy leaves

Of printed paper try to hide their falsities, using wind-blown tree leaves
To cover themselves, hoping demurely that they do not become wet.
I stand and walk to the fortunate tree that the fires
Have spared.  It is only a bit worse for wear, the color
Of its leaves brightening by the seconds.  I’d eat a peach,
But the tree seems too tired to bend to hand me one.  An audible whirl

Of wind behind me surprises myself and the tree, and I whirl
About to see the source of the disturbance, but leaves
From the tree (perhaps it wasn’t tired) at which I stand drop to blind me - a peach
Falls into my palm.  It is still cold and wet,
And forces its way to my lips, laughing with delicious color
At the storming annoyed Death, who has begun (in vain) Aftermath Armageddon fires.