There is a magnolia tree in the yard of the house, and each day I rest on the wooden swing of the front porch, soaking up her untamed glory. I never knew magnolia flowers grew on trees…a bush maybe, but not magnificent, enormous trees such as this. I could spend days watching her, the way the topmost leaves fall noisily from their branches, kissing the others on their way down, down, back into the soil. Her enormous white flowers are much larger than my pale hands, and they sweetly permeate the air, attracting brilliant blue jays and radiant red cardinals, bees, butterflies, barn swallows galore. As the dark clouds creep in and unleash a mix of fierce rain and warm sun, I run for shelter while the she stands strong, wholeheartedly and fearlessly accepting whatever comes her way. Her leaves always waving hello and goodbye to each passerby, whether they acknowledge her or not remains to be seen.
It’s so cliche, so cheesy, but just what this Southern summer should be. If I learn anything outside of class, it will be from the magnolia trees and the rolling, green hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. No book nor man could say things like they can.