Smudges

Smudges
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

Tiny fingerprint smudges,
On the windows of memory,
Leave reminders that tickle my mind
As once again I see baby faces
Pressed against the glass, looking back at me.
From the past to the present, time passes.
The children have grown until adults exist.
No longer chubby, faces beam with smiles,
Unless I tightly squint,
Then briefly find remnants
Of the cherubs they used to be.
The dimple once deep in a cheek
Now slightly hints
When the one son grins.
The younger now covers the cleft
In his chin with a man’s beard.
The woman’s blue eyes still twinkle
With mischief hidden within.
Shadow smudges remain dimly real.