“In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” —Albert Camus

It took me a long time to appreciate the beauty of subtraction. As a new gardener years ago, I always yearned for more. More flowers, more color, more lushness, more everything.

As with so many outsized cravings, this lust for proliferation resulted in an imbalance in my yard. Focusing on all the colorful things I could readily see in summer, I often neglected the subtler but perhaps even more significant elements of creating a dynamic wildlife garden: the leaves of host plants for insect specialists, the tree snags for cavity-nesting birds, the seed heads that provide sustenance when temperatures drop, the brush piles and leaf litter where countless creatures take shelter and breed.

These things weren’t banished from my spaces; they just weren’t high enough on my list of priorities for me to even notice, much less encourage.

While I age along with the property, I have gained new appreciation for the reminders issued by nature during these dark days. In winter we can view the world without distraction, observing as if with X-ray vision the bones of our surroundings. Shedding their extravagant petticoats of summer, the trees reveal the structure of their limbs, and we see through them. Letting go of their rough exteriors, the milkweed pods spill out fluffy promises, and in them we see the shape of things past and the shape of things to come.

Even though it feels like all of nature is retreating, it’s still there. The birds’ struggle to find seeds and insects becomes my struggle. The deer lying in the yard quietly grooming her front paws at dusk isn’t that different from my dog who used to do the same—or from me, for that matter. We all need a safe space and a little sustenance to get us through the day.

These things are obscured from view in the height of summer. Though the leaves are deeply missed now, their absence also gives us a chance for new perspective. Recently I saw in a new, wintry light even more wonders of the season when the Maryland Native Plant Society and the Calvert Nature Society convened a group of sun-starved hikers in search of anything green or interesting at Ward Farm Recreation and Nature Park. Here’s a taste of what we found.

Nature’s candy: Rose bushes near a pond were difficult to identify, so we did what any self-respecting plant lovers would do: We ate them. The hips were somewhat sweet, but the flavor still did not reveal its species.

Why is it called Christmas fern? Though green is scarce in Maryland’s winter palette, we saw a number of these draped along sloping, moist edges and over tree roots. Its name apparently derives from its evergreen nature that makes it available for Christmas decorations. But I prefer the explanation of our hike leader Karyn Molines, chief of Calvert County’s Natural Resources Division and a board member of MNPS: The leaves turn up at the ends like the feet of little Christmas stockings.

A gourmet spread for butterflies: Long after my own patch of common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) spilled its seedy guts to the winds, a few plants in a tree-ringed space of the park were still spreading hope for new life that will support monarch caterpillars and other animals next summer.

Peeling back the layers: A river birch (Betula nigra) growing near a pond punctured the gray landscape with rusty beauty. This swamp-loving species provides food for many animals, including ruffed grouse, wild turkeys, and mourning cloak caterpillars. Deer are fans of the leaves and twigs, and other species drink the tree’s sap.

Spiraling into control? In deeming 2015 the Year of the Vine, the Maryland Native Plant Society wants to counteract tree stranglers like the Japanese honeysuckle that made its home here. Instead of planting nonnatives, we should celebrate our own, non-strangling coral honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens), greenbrier (Smilax rotundifolia), and even poison ivy (Toxicodendron radicans) for their beauty and high wildlife value. Fascinating plants, many vines actually grow toward shade, Molines observed, because they’re looking for trees and structures to climb. In so doing, they conserve energy for producing big leaves instead of trunks. “How can I find someone else to do my work for me,” Molines asked, channeling a vine, “so I can spend all my time eating and having sex?”

What’s in a Name? Here was what we’d come for: a peek at anything green amid the gray and brown landscape. True to its name, spotted wintergreen (Chimaphila maculata) is one of few natives that holds its color throughout the winter. Listed as endangered or vulnerable in several northern states and Canada, this little beauty sends up dangling, delicate white flowers in early summer.

Appreciating the architecture of winter: As we stood between a pond and an open meadow, one hiker suggested the idea of planting invasives alongside natives to demonstrate the difference. Molines had a different idea. “This is really what winter looks like in Maryland,” she said. “I’d rather get people used to what things look like.” Many people want year-round color, but what appears to be most alive to our eyes may not be servicing the critical needs of the creatures around us. Nonnative plants generally don’t provide the food and shelter our animal friends need. The more attuned we are to their specialized habitats—and the more accustomed we get to “what things looks like”—the more life we will ultimately sustain.