every april i am beset by the same concern--that spring might not occur this year. the landscape looks forsaken, with hills, sky and forest forming a single gray meld, like the wash an artist paints on a canvas before the masterwork. my spirits ebb, as they did during an april snowfall when i first came to maine 15 years ago. "just wait," a neighbor counseled. "you'll wake up one morning and spring will just be here."