by Angela Wolfe
Sweet smell of sunshine,
Ferns popping their heads out of the moist, black soil,
Uncurling their arms as the sun grows stronger.
A hint of green peeks through the countryside,
But not a single leaf.
As I have observed,
For the sound of thunder.
Strange as it may seem,
Every year the buds are about to burst,
But not a single leaf,
Until black clouds appear,
And loud thunder rolls down the valley.
Rain drenches the hills,
And as if the thunder was a whisper from Mother Earth,
“Wake up trees, time to show your splendor.”
The morning light gives a stunning view,
Tiny little leaves have opened on the maple.
And green is like velvet across the hills.
Is it magic?
Is it God?
All I know is it happens,
Year after year.
Angela Wolfe was born and raised in Tennessee and grew up on a small farm north of Nashville. After graduating college with a degree in education, she moved with her husband to Jacksonville, Florida. She worked in K-12 education for over 20 years and currently works for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing. Anything old, anything connected to the South or history are her loves. She has a love-hate relationship with her 103-year-old home in Jacksonville’s historic district. She and her husband recently purchased land adjacent to her mother’s property in Tennessee and spend as much time as they can enjoying nature in the hills of Tennessee.