PLUM MOON 2026

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone. - Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains, and the music of a world untouched by our hands. Wild plum trees will shiver awake beneath a milk-white moon, their blossoms luminous against the wet black branches, the sweet promise of their dark fruits mingling with the scent of rain-darkened earth. Somewhere in the distance, frogs sing from still pools and owls sing their songs into the night, heedless of what has passed.

A perfume for the world after us: bruised plum, wild plum blossom, wet soil, rainwater, green leaves, pale moss, moonlit petals, and the cool, ghostly sweetness of life renewing.