I've been thinking a lot about violets for the past two weeks, digging for metaphors as I commit violent acts against them with my hoe, my rake, my trowel, finally getting down on my knees and with garden-gloved hands trying to rip them up by root and runner. They are the zebra mussels of the lawn, the urban sprawl of what probably was a small clump in my neighbor's garden 25 years ago, the Melissa computer virus of the garden walk. They creep like European settlers across the American frontier, I tell myself as I hack at another colony and sift the broken soil for any traces of seed or rhizome, that underground stem that makes them so hardy, insistent, tenacious, unruly. Trying to get rid of them is like trying to remove judgment from one's character. The roots run deep and stretch across vast tracts of inner landscape.
Many people talk about violets as if there are tame ones and wild ones.
Their delicate looks deceive, inspiring poets and lovers, who don't have time for yard work and never come to know the truth about violets. There is no such thing as one violet, e.e. It is their nature to take over, to restore our manicured lawns and orderly flower beds to their original state as forest floor or meadow. Which is why they are so loved. Think about it.