Winter's beauty deep when summer sleeps

Ugh, winter.

No, that's not so . . . .

Ah, winter.

Isn't it a little like the half-full, half-empty moon? It all depends on how you view it. Some Asian cultures look at a full moon and call it "new." They see it as a promise of what's to come -- fullness giving way to a sliver, then growing again.

And maybe that's winter. Beauty lies deep when summer sleeps.

A hollow pool, untouched swings, an empty irrigation ditch. Winter's virtues can be heartbreakingly lovely.

Although the world lies dormant now, this time of year gives gentle glimpse of what's yet to come -- tulip sprouts linger near the surface, apricot buds swell, Cowiche Creek beckons with wakening fish.

Barren? Perhaps. Without hope? Absolutely not.

Colors are subtle and muted; blue-grays and rust.

Or stark white. Without a garland of leaves, white birches stand in absolute contrast to a glowering sky.

White is a leitmotif, made richer by tundra swans visiting the Toppenish National Wildlife Refuge. Snowdrops, those early buds that mistake warm February days for spring, dazzle with ivory brightness.

There's a warm blush to winter that can't be duplicated in any other season, notably when the sun glows through a pane of glass on the back of your neck. It evokes a promise to come.

No roses bloom where summer slumbers, but incipient delights nonetheless await: ochre crab apples tempt flickers, trickles of gleaming water dance from drifts of snow, Red Osier Dogwoods cast a fiery glow.

Summer is the taste of barbecues and the smell of newly mown mint and the ringing of paleta carts in the road.

It's bouncing tennis balls and splashing cannon balls and great balls of fireworks.

Not winter.

No quieter calm exists than when a blanket of snow covers the Yakima Valley.

The stillness burrows deep. Time for reflection, of inner peace. A few evanescent footprints in the snow. Crisp silhouettes, sharpened by the sun's fleetingly low angle. A plaintive, wind-pummeled, glacial veneer -- winter is all that.

Summer's personality is glitzier, more all-consuming. Winter doesn't lack pizzazz, exactly, it's just less forgiving.

Frozen lawns eventually give way to frozen popsicles. Calm repose turns into the cacophony of a four-square tournament. Woolen gloves shift to an outfielder's mitt.

But why choose? Each has its place and much to cherish.

The Yakima Arboretum may be better known for spring blossoms, summer strolls and electric fall color, but winter, with wisps of wild rye playing counterpoint to sculpted conifers, creates its own fairyland.

What gives this time of year the feel of eternity are nascent signs of life: when the scarlet Pyracantha gleams, can the Redbud, and its black raspberry foliage, be far behind?

Winter is like that -- a promise that summer will keep.