The Trail
Little fingers smear the wall
Mud, food, or mystery goo
Those tiny hands touch it all
Dark streaks on the chair of blue
On the curtain, table, and rug
Wiped along the sofa arm too
In the kitchen a tipped milk jug
I spy the footprints across the floor
And a lost lovey awaiting a hug
I follow the tracks out the door
Finding tired children numbering four
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