When spring's first flower blossoms

There's something sweet in spying the first spring flower upon a meadow or beside a cornfield as taking a quiet walk. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with greenhouse-grown flowers. But when the first prairie phlox or April violets with their heart-shaped leaves emerge, we can be certain that gaunt and gray winter is behind us.

And a flower that rises from the Earth's pungent soil, like dawn's first glow or the smile on a face, only brightens its bed of sallow grass.

Close to this time last year while ambling along the Iowa River, I came across spring's first violet. My hand thrust down to pluck it, so I might bring it back to my wife as a token of affection, as a symbol that its beauty and hope re-minded me of her during my walk alone.

But as my fingers curled around the petals' base, I paused, stuck in a minor Hamlet moment.

Pull the flower, I told my-self, and I deny someone else who later might come this way a flash of beauty. Pull the flower, and a bee loses a meal. Pull the flower, and fewer bloom next spring. "Sweets to the sweet" but at whose expense?

Perhaps if it had been a meadow full of blooms rather than a single blossom, the problem would not cause such affliction

But the desire to show affection ran deep, and even my wife had more than once gently advised me to not overthink a situation.

I sighed. If "overthinking" isn't my nature because we do not possess such a thing, I still was perfectly satisfied choosing it as a way of life.

So my hand withdrew, and I walked on, deciding to change my course.

The greenhouse would not be too far out of my way.

(Originally published March 20, 2005, as "A decision when spring's first flower blossoms")