MotherTown - As anticipated following a few cold snaps, my yard has indeed turned shades of gray ... with some counterpoints of brown, black and forest green. Ever in denial, however, I decided to make my annual pilgrimage to Tower Hill Botanic Garden in West Boylston to see whether winter had arrived there as well. Driving up their lengthy entrance road, winter seemed to be a given: sere brown fields, denuded apple trees, curled beige leaves on the beech trees. Even the parking lot added confirmation: puffs of brown seeds where goldenrod and asters once populated the un-mown strips between paved areas, witch hazel sporting only their seedpods, and holly bushes with scarlet winter berries.

But the gardens themselves offered considerable evidence that fall still lingered in New England. Despite the fact that the primordial pool had been drained down to a layer of primordial algae (mixed with donated coins) and the freshly mulched bankings had been stripped of their annuals, an amazing diversity of color remained. A ‘Winter Gold’ crabapple bore tiny yellow fruit not yet discovered by migrating cedar waxwings. Two weeping atlas cedars, Cedrus atlantica and Glauca pendula, displayed tufts of silver-green needles sprung from silver-gray trunks that seemed shorter than their name. Purple asters and pink chrysanthemums still held flowers in the Systematic Garden, while velvety burgundy snapdragons glowed like embers scattered in the bark mulch. Purple-leafed cranesbill and holiday red and green Bergenia proved that foliage can provide focal points in the fall garden.

Other season-stretchers included a long border of grasses, each clump showing seed plumes of different shapes (from feather duster to horse’s tail) and another border of holly, all with red berries (where did they hide the male plants?). The antique heron-supported fountain was empty, but its encircling green and white or purple ruffled kale will be colorful until the snow buries it. Heather and heaths proved their rugged constitution with tiny bells of yellow, purple, rose or white.

The nearly set scarlet sun, framed just above a flight of granite steps by a pair of ‘Obelisk’ red European beech trees, reminded me to retreat inside the Orangerie before dark. It more resembled a retreat back to August. Tropical plants summered outside had been fork-lifted back indoors, crowding the space with foliage, color and fragrance. The staff responsible for grouping the plants had outdone themselves: a variegated agave with broad, spiny leaves was encircled by a feathery vine; a green and gold variegated flowering maple with apricot flowers stood against a silvery weeping Kashmir cypress; and a pony-sized split-leaf philodendron was ringed with tiny-leafed shrubs. Oranges, which bear fruit year-round, held jasmine-scented flowers and green and ripe fruit all on the same tree.

Suddenly, as I stood listening to the gentle sounds of three fountains and new age music and inhaling the heavy fragrance of just-watered plants, the whole atmosphere changed. The Orangerie is illuminated very minimally inside and the natural light had faded to twilight. The foliage retreated to a green haze, while the flowers seemed to leap outward. Purple blossoms on salvia and glory bush glowed like lilac neon lights; ripening pomegranate fruit gleamed in red; yellow trumpets of Brugmansia flared wider than my hand and began to emit their evening fragrance; and the orange, many-fingered fruit of ‘Buddha’s Hand’ citron reached out malevolently. A new water garden, created by allowing a head-high, water-filled urn to spill over its rim into a pool accented with water plants, sparkled with reflected light. For a few moments, the whole space under the glass roof was totally magical.

Then back to the real world, as I exited through the lobby where three Christmas cacti sat in exuberant bloom and two camellias had started their season with rich pink blossoms. Outside in the cold, two ancient sugar maples stood in bare-branched silhouette   against the peach and purple sunset and the Wachusett Reservoir lay in a flat pewter puddle against the purple hills. Tower Hill—were it can be any season you want it to be.