On a mild February afternoon, the garden can open in narrow strips. Snow pulls back from the south side of a bed. The soil beneath it is dark and glossy, last autumn’s leaves are pressed flat, and a few small casts sit at the mouth of holes that were invisible the day before. The ground looks paused, but the evidence…
By mid-December, a garden can vanish in the night. Paths soften, beds lose their edges, and the seed heads that looked architectural in November become little dark punctuation marks above a white page. Snow seems to simplify everything. It hides the unfinished jobs, the uncut stems, the fallen leaves that escaped the rake, and the soil you meant to mulch…
