Under the arching branches of an old white lilac, wild violets have made themselves a cozy home. Many people see these sturdy little flowers as weeds, but I am happy to see them wherever they choose to turn up. They seem to like their little bower, which is carpeted with bright green moss in the shadier parts. The flowers spring from rosettes of heart-shaped leaves, standing confidently on impossibly slim stems. Their little faces turned slightly to the right or the left as if to converse with the crowd of neighboring violets. I remember an even larger population of violets. They inhabited a grassy plot next to my grade school. In April, it would turn purple with blossoms. At lunchtime, while my classmates played kickball, I would wander through this purple sea, gathering handfuls, almost more than I could hold, taking them back to the teachers. For the rest of the afternoon, some of the wilting violets would lay on my desk, a reminder of the spring miracle that was right outside.