“Here I am!”
we shout with glee,
giggling and clapping
and stomping our feet.

“It’s Easter Sunday!”
We dash through a sunny church scene,
snatching up pastel eggs
and staining our shoes green.

“What can you trade?”
We munch on caramel sweets,
dusted with powdered sugar
and served with a cherry pastry.

“You’ll ruin your clothes,”
mother grumbles through her teeth,
straightening my starched cotton ruffles
and smoothing brother’s silken long-sleeves.

“Is dinner ready?”
We peek through the kitchen screen,
sniffing the mushroom gravy
and finally settling at the basil-turkey feast.