Every spring I get to play Rapture.

When I got my house it included a small field of poppies mixed with an assortment of other plants. Included in the plants was grass which, every spring, I grab close to the ground and individually show my special attention to by flying it up into the sky.

Left behind are those poppies and other unfortunates — cursed to remain suffering in the filthy, muddy ground. Cursed to suffer the winds, usually too hot or too cold. Cursed to endure the sun beating onto them. Cursed to face the constant incarnation of death that is Winter, of resurrection that is Spring, of growth that is Summer, and of rotting that is Autumn. Cursed to endure all those Pagan gods.

Raptured into the sky, the fortunate grasses enter a peace that passeth all understanding and join a god that stays the same for ever and ever.