The flower garden’s dainty carpeting of Sweet Woodruff had wandered a few inches to introduce itself to the grass. Hostas were performing acrobatic acts upon their slender stalks. The auricular seemed to form their own garden club with the Snow Lady calling the meeting to order. The poppy mallows reveled in the sun. Pink turtlehead laughed in the corner. The sun sank lower, darkness letting the weeds escape detection. It was now too late to start weeding. I had chosen the better part—delighting in the flowers.