Her errant words hover over peaches
shining in their wooden bowl.
Sometimes she finds them
in her purse, crouched among coins,
crumpled between fives and twenties.
They love the jewel-box, ballerina
turning, plucking these words
brighter than garnets.
Once she unscrewed her lipstick
and found a few. When she
pinched them between her fingers,
they flew from her greed.
See them tumble to the floor:
a waterfall, a ruby spill of butterflies.