Today on a walk at dusk before the rain, I saw the first white snowdrops crowning beneath a bush. (Right around the corner at the house with the huge Great Dane.) I never really understood the passion for white gardens (this book talks about them) until I started spending time in my own garden at dusk. In the later evening, with the chuckles and sparkles of the fire in the chiminea lighting the dark, and the white irises glowing beyond, bobbing above the white alyssum, and farther off, the cloud of white clematis under the stars. The deep purples, cobalts, oranges and ceruleans that make up my daytime garden? Not to be seen. Erased by the setting sun like an octopus shooting its cloud of ink.
So last fall, I planted more white in my garden. White so that the garden will have two faces; two sets of dress. White to reflect the moon, the starlight, the firelight. White so that my evenings, dusks and nights will be set against a speckled, luminous backdrop of gently moving, softly breathing shapes.
As of now, the sun is still too cold for my imagined feats. We enjoy chilly afternoons in a windswept, slowly warming emptiness of underground secrets. The roots will soon be stirring but, for now, I think of other things. I sip my tea. I wait for the day when, at dusk and in bare feet, I will watch the flowers in white sway and light my night.