The only border behaving itself this time of the year is the Peony Walk. This is its fifth year, and we are beginning to divide. The Walk started as a narrow gravel path flanked by three holes with a single peony dropped into each. Naming it the Peony Walk was a nomenclature typical of the Laissez-faire Gardener, the owner of the property, who encouraged me to garden there. (Note: the Laissez-faire Gardener was so named followed a question about the right time to prune. “The right time,” he said authoritatively, “is whenever the mood strikes me.”)