In the morning, the salty greenness of new leaves on a fig tree beginning to bloom. In the afternoon, a burst of linden blossom and ivy as you lie on a carpet of mowed grass in the warm sun, listening to the gentle thwop of racquet against ball. At dusk, an unruly rose garden at the edge of the woods, surrounded by torn petals, wet earth, and the fading scent of ozone telling you the storm has passed. These were the scenes we waited for through the short, dark days of a long winter. And when spring came, Hemingway said, "there were no problems except where to be happiest."