Closer up in Joyce's mountain-side garden. Still-lives from a place not at all still, from the hum and fizz and whir of the smaller things. Even the colors seem to make their own sounds.
One gift that Joyce's garden has given me was this: that one early evening, a few years ago, I went outside to walk. It was the perfect few minutes between day and night, when the mountain top still held the last glow of setting sunlight, but the rest of the woods were darkening: not so dark you couldn't see, but drained of detail, a deep blue-green. And the evening primrose that lined her walk,
(here seen in daylight)
were glowing like lanterns, a color I'll call lavender because I haven't been able to come up with any better name. For those few minutes they nodded and waved a little, lit from within. The gift was this, of course, but it was also a gift of memory-I have those few minutes to define dusk for me, possibly forever.