Bane of our lawn’s existence, I still have a soft spot in my heart for these little violets that still manage to break through in the spring despite all the treatments. When I was little, behind our family home was a little stretch of woods, and behind the black iron gate of the pool, a swath of these violets had naturalized and provided an enchanting carpet that was lit up with purple and white violet blooms each spring.
The variegated white and purple variety was far more ubiquitous, but I always coveted the more rare pure violet blooms like the one seen here.
Boys didn’t pick violets in forests when I was little; I was a strange creature that way, and I saw no shame in it. Under the spell of spring beauty, I spent my afternoons walking in the forest, entranced and enchanted by the plants and the light and the slippery salamanders that hid under the larger rocks.
That I’m weighed down by your beautiful
Collapsing underneath your perfect
Drowning in your wonderful
And I’m letting you sink in
It’s, it’s almost unbearable
I’m suffering inside your magic
Love you something terrible
And I’m letting you sink in
And I’m letting you sink in
A violet for your thoughts seems a more precious deal than a penny.
I would always take that deal.
Anything for a flower, always more pretty than a penny, even if they didn’t last.
Maybe because they didn’t last.
