Years ago, I discovered it—the lonely little garden—during one of my early walks into the heart of spring. It was nestled among some overgrown plots on a gentle slope outside the city, stretching like a narrow ribbon of flowers along an old vineyard secured with rough-hewn stones. It was a sunny flower garden, almost treeless, but fragrant with blooming shrubs and white climbing roses. The special, unique feature of this little garden was its mossy flower beds outside, beyond the fence, sown in a haphazard abundance—a lavish temptation, an everlasting allure for every nectar-seeking butterfly, every thirsty moth, and a freely offered ticket into a paradise of scents and the fulfillment of every fluttering desire.