Hippity-hoppity

Those Sundays usually seemed to be an April affair,
unlike the ones I've noticed taking place in March
these years I am now living. 

Those Sundays took us to Moscow,
to Granny's smile and
Grandpa's smoke-wrapped chuckle. 

The newly spring event was mixed
with the sweet taste of milk chocolate,
bitter marshmallow confections,
and sour smelling dyes for various-sized ovals
collected from the chicken nests.

Balance was learned with our tiny hands
using wire dippers to lift the bathing eggs
from bowls of bright colors. 

Wet newspaper print and
white distilled vinegar filled
our noses while Granny and
Mom hovered over us to make sure
the boiled beauties were placed just so. 

Light blue, yellow, pasty pink, and faded green
were hidden under barberry,
in tire swing, and behind the feeder
made into a planter. 

Cousins scrambled to find those colors
awaiting our unsure hands
that would squeeze too tightly,
or throw too hard in the basket,
or tip too far over. 

Warm smiles created by those annual Sundays
always signaled the end of cold times,
certainly something to celebrate.