What's Worth Protecting

She hung the muslin back so slow,

the cream cloth held like she'd never let go—

like a towel could matter, could be

something worth this kind of care, see?

I watched her deliberate hands

and thought about how the world expands

for people who treat small things as sacred,

while I let mine rot, never tracked it.

Just a towel. Just cloth. But the way

she held it made me stay

with the thought that maybe I'm wrong

about what's worth protecting. That song

in her hands—that's what I'm missing.