In a canny move, the grey remnants of poet Walt Whitman bought the rights to lilacs. Purple and white with ripe green herbage and a fragrance of abundance, lilacs exist and subsist as subsumed sentiment now. We believe implacable legend has purpose. We try to ignore "O Captain! My Captain!" as the poor marketing transport that it is but lilacs in spring loss fosters something deeper. Whitman knew he needed something deeply riding and present. Lilac skips ahead with a shout and full vernal escapade. Wherever Dooryards gather, there might you see lilacs a-bloom. We can forgive Walt and the crust of his beard. The nation is a bedstead and the cranks have long Lankin dreams. Consumerism called the shots all along, but lilacs stay.
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