In this decayed hole among the mountains, in the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

No more chocolate bunnies and what Easter grass remains are the stray tufts shoved between the cushions of the couch. Sunday's celebration, whatever it meant (secularly or sacerdotally) has gone the way of my petunias and crocuses.

As you can see, the midget mafia had much less enthusiasm for heading off to mass with my parents than they had for consuming peeps. Dressed nice for the occasion, though.

The bonnets were cute but unnecessary - there was nary a ray of sunshine on Sunday and we were bundling more so than bunting. The girls were not long for the dresses, either; not on a day where you could see your breath and your footsteps.

Last year at Easter, we were dealing with bees and spilled kool-aid. So much for warm-weather nostalgia.

Small wonder I'm suffering a bit of amnesia regarding the season this year: like so much of the country, it's not much of a spring. This evening looked like this:

Tomorrow's forecast calls for more of that; I'd prefer to remember Easter, not Christmas.

Close the damn door, it's freezing...