On the longest night of the year a resounding malevolence filled the black garden.  From the window I stood staring at the way the wet ground reflected back upon the little house, like the natural world on life support.  The painful way the vines had become withered and choked of all beauty.  I concentrated intently for signs of the once herbaceous border and couldn’t remember if we had Chrysanthemums this year.  Was it my fault?  Then my gaze fell upon the darkened Sawtooth Oak tree just beyond the garden.  The leaves gathered at its base like diligent servants or destroyed exiles.  Even the tree seemed bothered by the bitter sinking cold, the snow flurries sinking into bark, the life sinking ever inward.  I walked away from the window and back into the kitchen.  It was only then I could hear Kate crying in the bedroom and I really began to wonder if she was a Goddess this whole time.  It was a yearning for something that came from within the very marrow of her bones.  A mourning for something as old as the earth and something I could never understand. 

(photo source)

(Kate McGarrigle live at Royal Albert Hall)