The Rose of Sharon is not a hybrid tea, a climber, shrub or floribunda. In fact, it’s not a rose at all — it’s a hibiscus. I write about it today because for weeks it’s bloomed its heart out, producing dozens of delicate pink flowers that gladden my heart and soothe these warm midsummer days.

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Shakespeare wrote in “Romeo and Juliet.” The Rose of Sharon has no aroma I can detect, but it’s a graceful presence in the summer garden. Its ubiquity and steadfastness has earned it the name “rose,” at least in my book.

Rose of Sharon is a plant I remember from my youth, a garden given. Like many of the trees and shrubs in my yard, however, its placement is not ideal. This year’s profusion has meant my car is often strewn with roses. An embarrassment of riches — though a mess to clean up later.