The lilac evokes the image of a beribboned Regency girl picnicing with suitors abound reading “She Walks in Beauty”. Perhaps it is the guileless branches reaching with violet fingers, seemingly searching for the elusive . . . something.
Clearly, the lilac makes me wax poetic, or perhaps I have simply read one too many romance novels over the years–the dainty flowers coupled with the intoxicating fragrance beckoning me to flex my long-abused sonnet writing skills.
Of the four lilacs I planted two years years ago, only three survive; and of that, only one thrives. One of the bushes died after being smacked into with the car door for the entire 2011 Summer–I blame my husband *mostly* for that one. The second has perpetually looked leggy, with sparsely long branches that stick out at confusing angles. The third is simply wimpy, growing full but flowering little. The fourth is, well, perfection: heavily blooming and full throughout the shrub. I suspect more sun, being away from abuse (car doors and nosy dogs), and added leaf-mulch is the reason.