It is a warm 70 degress outside, but the fields are bare; my family has fertilized all wild flowers away. The neighbors had similar intentions in the fall and incarnated them about a week ago. Large, smelly chemicals, designed to inhibit the growth of anything but grass was scattered like rose petals, forming a discriminating barrier around area homes. The violets did not stand a chance.

Every Spring I welcomed the season by going into my parents' backyard. There, in the stillness of the honeydewed morning hours, I would bring my wicker basket and sit among the violets.

The first violets of the year always made me feel more alive. They are such a tiny flower, but so detailed. Violets are my birth flower and I have always loved looking at them, smelling them, touching their petals and making of them gifts to those whom I love.

The fat honey bees would hum their familar buzz around me as I plucked the gentle violets and carefully laid them into my basket. Every now and then I would glance up at the clouds and search their forms for familiar faces and comforting thoughts. A moment of perfect happiness.   I would think, as the violet pile increased.

Running the grass through my peachy white fingers, grabbing a violet and placing it in my hair, I would lay back and breathe deeply. Closing my eyes, I would let each sound, each bird and cricket, each leaf and murmering, wash over my captivated body. I was whole, at least for a moment.

The sun played across my face, tumbling like a little child doing its gymnastics. I saw light, I saw darkness. The robins tittered in the background and the fat bee buzzed right past my nose. Just missed, thank goodness. My face accidentally entered the flight path of a little fuzzy once, and the squabble that ensued is not something I want to re-live.

I pulled my wicker basket near me and selected a few flowers. Taking them in my dawn chilled hands, I wove their stems into a lovely in and out braid. Longer and longer my chain of purple grew. In and out, left and right, my fingers sped through the braiding gesture - done a hundred times before and a hundred times since.

My garland's glory glistened with the still clinging cloud tears and mist breath of an earth at peace with man and man with it. How I long for those days of joy and freedom.

Now I am surrounded by "perfect" violet-less lawns. Now I can feast upon precisely formed bushes and trimmed grass. With such an abundance I wonder why I appear to be starving. Life is ironic like that.

My orange Spanish sandals lead me on a long, meditative walk today. I was thinking about violets and had given up searching for them. I was discouraged and my gait was one of defeated acceptance. My eyes looked to each side, considering the many sparkles created by the broken Corona bottles and smashed Bud Lights. Corona made prettier glitter.

I glanced down and noticed some purple. I walked past it, and then stopped in my tracks. Could it be? Perhaps my old friends are paying me a visit, I mused.

Retracing my hurried steps, my eyes widened and my smile broadened. The violets had come! There were six of them, craining their necks to be seen. No one really notices you, I whisper to them, but I do. Beauty is often hidden in the ugliest of places. A smashed bottle, an old banana peel, and some mercenary asphalt laid scattered around the violets like a votive offering. Come with me, I delicately reached down to pick three of them, I know just the person who deserves your beauty.

Violets in hand, I feel at peace, and quicken my pace homeward.

No one at home understood my treasure. It was as if I alone could see their beauty. "Oh, how nice, violets," Someone said to humor my elation, stating the extreme obvious. I shall hide them, I thought, and I did.