Yes, there is such a thing as a winter garden. Form and texture and shadow and frame. Remnants of the past and glimpses of what is to come...or what has succumbed and will not. Lessons in how to look harder, interpret and intuit more...the stark loveliness of gray and white and cold and pale sunlight.
A Romantic season, despite its harshness and sometime brutality. It is not, by any means, my least favorite of the four. On the contrary, in the fall I look forward to putting the garden and its unceasing call, to bed. Tucked in so I might assemble my stack of books and luxuriate in their pages in front of the fire (or on top of the heating pad...). Or make my way, at least partially, down my list of domestic to do's. Chores I am loathe to tackle when the sun and garden beckon...
or shout. Like everyone this year, I have moaned and complained of the cold and ice. Still, I know full well, that August and century marks lie ahead, as does the sensation of being always behind in the potager. Spring garden chores will pile up, as will the neglected dust and laundry...and Husband, as I turn my hours and attention outside.
If you are rolling your eyes at my pollyanna-ism, I invite you to read the wonderful The Winter Garden by the equally as wonderful Rosemary Verey. Truly, the gardener that has been the most inspirational to me over all these years.
If she can't re-instill your affection for this, arguably the purest of the seasons,
then pick up your camera, or the hand of a child, and see if that doesn't change your mind.