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A taste of provence
Like a Butterfly, I took a winding path from the morning dew to the moonlit night.
Like a Grasshopper, I turned a somersault in Sault.
Like a Spider, I went up the Mont Ventoux.
Like an Ant, I clambered up cliffs of ochre.
Like a Dragonfly, I plunged my feet into a stream, dipped my nose in the water.
Like a Bee, I gathered savours.
Like a Bumblebee, I picked flavours.
Like a Cicada, I sang of colours.
Like a Ladybug, I filled my cumbersome knapsack with cucumbers.
Peas, artichokes, half-open shutters, a stroke of sky, a touch of sun, a sleeping cat, linens hung out on a line, a heap of baskets, a set of soaps, bags of spices, a row of pencils, a pile of sheets, a game of petanque, a few hand-painted santons, a moment’s silence, the shadow of an olive tree… But in my bag all my walks got mixed up. So I went in the bathroom and scattered everything on the floor. I poured the colours into bottles lined up on the shelf. I put away the flavours in cotton cases. I spread the savours on terry towels. I hung out the hand towels to dry at the window. I cut out a carpet from a stone path. I sewed linen baskets using circles and stripes and hid the old villages behind stone walls.