They gather round Dorotka’s Easter basket
Like hummingbirds thirsting for the sweet, flowery nectar
Of Spring.
“How does she do it, improve on Perfection every year?”
“She says it’s because she fasts all Lent. Can’t wait for its breaking
On a glorious Sunday morning.”
“That may be why she is so trim and spry,
But that basket is something else. Inspired!” a babushka chimed.

If it were an annual
Holy Saturday competition,
Which it is, Dorothy, the woman blessed with grace,
Wins every bright Easter match.
In her family’s prized , traditional basket:
Polish sausage displayed in its marbleized gray glory,
Home-made, perfectly seasoned.
The slice of ham calling out to be tasted.
Each grain of salt counted,
Washed if she could find a way.
Linens brought from the Old Country.
Creamy butter lamb, and bread glistening in its roundness.
She waits for the sprinkling holy water to come.
Then, with just a hint of a demure curtsy,
Presents her basket to The Father,
With pride, but never prideful.
They all wonder, how does she prevail?
Year after year, Mistress of the Blessed Feast.

In answer, God, in heaven,calls down, joyously,
To the amazed gathering of busias.
“Easy, He chortled, I help her win.
I just can’t resist when she turns on that
Dorothy Polish Smile.”

Charlene James-Duguid , Poetry Curator