The dish towel hangs by the sink

The dish towel hangs by the sink,

a frayed edge loosening, starting to sink.

Stains of meals shared, like stories told,

a tapestry of moments, both shy and bold.

Through laughter and clatter, the days would fold,

each thread a reminder, a piece of gold.

In the quiet chaos of morning's light,

it cradles our spills, makes wrongs feel right.

That ordinary cloth carries our scent,

the warmth of a home, a love well spent.

Beneath the weight of daily tasks,

a silent witness, where comfort basks.