In summer, the trees of the forest are a sea of green. The apple and maple in the front yard are a ball of leaves. The asters by the lane present waves of white above green. Now that snow has fallen, the green is replaced with a sea of white with grey stands of trees, lacey black shrubs, and yellow-grey stalks of wild flowers. It is a barren view, in a way, but what is revealed is the structure of the plants.

The forest is still too thick to see through even without the leaves. It is a grey haze that hides the neighbour's house. But we can see the branches where flocks of birds perch in the summer. Fortunately for the birds, the pines, spruce, and cedar are still cones of green with plenty of shelter inside their needled branches.

Stripped bare, we can see the age of the apple tree. The thick central branches show how many years it has stood. The scars of branches broken by wind are visible. Looking at the twists in the branches, the years of pruning and the years of regrowth can be counted. Looking at this summer's break and the deep scar in the trunk, we see its fragility as well. As we anticipate its loss, we planted a young apple nearby. Its slender stalks rise only a couple feet above the snow.

With the lilac, we can see both the old branches and the new ones that ensure that clump will remain. The thick old branches are covered with grey-blue lichen. The young slender branches rise right beside them, smooth and supple, a promise of renewal.

The reach of the maple tree is the same with or without leaves. The branches spread. Its strength can be seen in the thick central branches. The way it will keep reaching out and up is visible in the smaller twigs that have grown from the sturdy boughs.

While the blanket of snow covers the grass and gardens, a few yellow-grey reminders stand above the white. The tallest slender stems of grass still hold a small seed head, a reminder of what lies beneath the snow. The cattails' sturdy stalks hold brown heads high above the sea of white. As wind and winter set in, the heads are turning white, slowly shedding their seeds. Their stalks will stand all winter marking the place where there is water beneath the ice.

In the field, thistle plants still prick if a skier gets too close. Sharp thorns cover the plant. A few still carry the tight ball that was its flower.

Burdock still catches the unwary. Though the leaves are gone, the central stalk stands tall. Tufts of shoots hold dark brown burrs that grab socks or pants or fur when person or dog gets too close.

Asters are a dull yellowish grey, but they are still beautiful. Their slender shoots make a lacey spread, and the dried flower has a delicate thimble-shape.

Marking the edge of the garden, helping direct the snow blower, mullein stands majestic. Its seeds have fallen, and the brown head resembles a honey-comb.

Standing above the white, the weeping willow and raspberry canes show the same shape as they do in summer. Reaching strands sway in the wind in both seasons.

Except for its colour, goldenrod looks the same. The stalk bends in the wind. The flower head spreads like fingers on a hand. Snow clings though, weighs the plant down. Soon it will bend further and be covered by the snowy blanket.

Milkweed Pods look like small boats ready to sail the surface of the snow as soon as the blanket reaches them. Which won't be long even with the melt. Soon the snow will deepen, hiding ditches, leveling fields. The wind will lay down drifts in the shadow of trees and fence posts, making shifting hills to climb. But even when so much of the shape of the world is hidden, trees and the strongest of plants will show their structure.
Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister, and writer living near Walters Falls.