In the morning, it’s the inner forest that awakens, autumn colors dwelling within me sparkle at the slightest brush of light from the skies. This inward radiance becomes outwardly bright. This peace born of contact with nature inspires me: I coniferize myself, birch-whiten myself, maple-red dazzle myself, I confitify, I toastify, with a good cup of coffee. From the canopy, I hear the full song of the birds through the chatter of grey and white birches. A little piece of cheese from the shed replumes me, rainbowizes me. Good morning, Martin, Ghislain and Lise, and you, Louise, and you who melanize yourself rubbing your round eyes like cherries, or rather blueberries, or hazelnut-colored ones at Lisette’s, or in absinthe vapors at Jacinthe’s, after that fabulous yawn that defines you. While the little ones still sleep, a small surprise moment, alone aboard, with not a sound from the finch chamber, here’s how to begin the day in tenderness and serenity. In the morning, it’s the inner forest that awakens, still crinkled with pine needles, while we toast the bread, while the last flowers of summer have soon finished fading, drying tenderly, and offering themselves, deliciously conquered, to end their destiny in a ribboned potpourri. Ah, the fragrant herbs of awakening in the inner forest.
