Concede the point. I’m not a lilac lilac.
I lack that cope of mauve upon my back.
The tulip calls her plum-cheeked colleague forth
And cries, “Arise, O Lavender-of-the-North,”
While she, in purple plush, will wink and nod,
Incline her curls at me and name me: “Fraud.”
A blot, a blank, a blah—you must concur—
A lump of floral wool without allure.
I’m soapsuds. Chalk. Coquilles Saint-Jacques.
I’m cream, I’m milk, not orchid silk.

She’s cinnamon and eyelashes and lace.
I’m nutmeg. I am freckles on your face.
She’s frankincense, but I am merely beeswax.
She’s luscious adjectives. And me? Just syntax.
She’s garnets glinting from a diadem,
Musetta shrieking woe in La Bohème.
I’m icicles in fractals down a fjord,
The Goldberg Variations’ harpsichord.
I lack her flair. But why compare?
I am just me: a lilac tree.

(Words and photo by Sarah Hinlicky Wilson.)