Because the garden is the smallest plot in the world, it is also the mirror of our moods. This morning, I decided to look only at the beauty. Ignore the aphids that stormed the first buds of roses, the moth that weaves its tiny white threads around the leaves of boxwood, or ivies, thistles and bindweed that are relentlessly resurfacing.
This morning, before the house woke up and the rhythm of the little ones came to dictate ours, I went down to the garden. I went to extract these juices that nourish my imagination but also to gather a little of this life that all those who are deprived of it cry and to whom I dream of offering some seeds of hope.
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Before the angelus rings and the prayer of the world goes up, I was delighted that the bedbugs already devour the ants which have feasted on aphids while the chickadees are agitated around the boxwood, table of a endless feast in the concert of birds that welcomes me every
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