Well, if someone else is doing fireworks, I’ll go see, but I value my fingers and hearing too much to DIY it. But there is nothing like fireworks on Easter to warm the heart. Or on Arbor Day, or National Salsa Dancing Day (March 11th, mark your calendars. Also, don’t confuse it with National Salsa Day — honoring the spicy condiment on May 1st.) Nothing says holiday like fireworks.
Girls in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’,
plod along muddy roads–
colorful yet spatter-fearing–
trudging to Easter service
meticulously, yet carefree.
Some wedge their way into Tata Sumos
to jounce their way to mass.
Master wicker craftsmen
made their Easter baskets.
My Hoosier childhood Easters
featured injection-molded plastic baskets
–pretend woven–
but pressed from a blob of pastel plastic.
Even our grass was plastic–fake grass.
[Same as Christmas tinsel but for color.]
I bet they have real grass, too.
We had access to real grass
but no one wanted it
to touch their jelly bean.
I find so much reality to be alien and off-putting.
And I never learned
whether Meghalayans eat their
bunnies feet- or ears- first. 
