In early March, the edge of a snowbank can reveal a lawn that looks as if it has been badly stored. The grass is flattened into pale circles. Some blades are glued together in a papery crust. In the dampest places, fine gray-white threads stretch across the surface like cobwebs laid down overnight. Spiders are not the only explanation. Those…
Read more about Those cobwebs beneath melting snow may be snow mold
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…
On a cold February morning, a maple with a bucket on it can sound more awake than the rest of the garden. The beds are still flat. The lawn is patched with old snow. The buds on the branches look tight and undecided. Then, from a small metal spout in the bark, a clear drop gathers, falls, and ticks against…
On a January morning, a rhododendron can look as if it has lost its nerve. Yesterday the leaves were broad, glossy, and almost tropical in their confidence. Today they hang like narrow green cigars, each one drooping from the twig and curled along its length as if the whole shrub has tightened itself against the cold. It is an alarming…
On a cold January morning, a fruit tree can look almost empty. The leaves are gone, the grass is flattened, and the branch tips seem to be holding nothing more interesting than brown dots. It is easy to walk past an apple, peach, plum, cherry, pear, or blueberry and think the garden has become a diagram of waiting. But those…
Read more about Why fruit trees count winter before they bloom
On a bright December afternoon, a young tree trunk can seem to be enjoying the only warm thing in the garden. The beds are flat, the hose is asleep, and the mulch is edged with frost, but the low sun lands on one side of the bark with surprising force. If there is snow on the ground, the light comes…
In February, a rhubarb crown can look like nothing at all. The leaves are gone, the bed is flat, and the plant seems to have retreated into a knot of roots below cold soil. Then a gardener puts a dark pot over it, waits, and finds red stems rising in the absence of light, tender and bright as if spring…
In January, a flowering shrub can feel almost unreasonable. The garden is mostly structure: bark, seed heads, mulch, stone, the green insistence of evergreens. Then witch hazel opens on bare wood. Its flowers do not arrive as soft spring cups or summer trumpets. They arrive as thin ribbons, yellow or copper or red, curling and uncurling in the cold like…
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…
In December, a garden becomes very honest. The flowers have stopped covering weak structure. Herbaceous stems have collapsed or turned to seed. Deciduous trees have taken their color down to bark, bud, and branch. Then the evergreens begin to look almost improbable: pine, spruce, yew, holly, boxwood, rhododendron, juniper. They stand in the cold with leaves still attached, as if…
