There is moss on the hard ground between the east end of the house and the iris bed. There is moss between the irises themselves. And there is moss in the remaining narrow stretch between the irises and the neighbor’s house. There are some weeds, too. The neighbor sprayed the weeds on his side, and so now they are dead white tufts. I don’t use spray. When the ground is dry enough, I simply scrape the weeds away with a hoe. And in the process I sweat out my own poisons. The result: a weed-free iris garden, a less-sullied environment, and better health. This is my approach. And the moss dries out in the sun and fades away, and I dry out in the sun and I fade away, and the sun is the same sun that yields at night what it brings to the day. There is my childhood in there somewhere, and the neighbor kids down the road, out running between the vineyard rows, hiding behind woodpiles, throwing clods, all in a kind of endless summer — a horned toad, jack rabbit, pheasant-in-flight, buzzard-on-a-fence-post world of delight — and soon again soon, the irises will bloom. And everything is right, once you see it.