Whistling wind and growing buds

The wind has settled on howling. Blasting from the north, it pipes obtusely through the not-quite-clasped windows of my bedroom and begs for attention. I'm still as shaky as the unleafed trees, hiding their tender chances of budding against the contrary forces of April wind. Little fruit spurs are swelling their tender chests, showing bold forecasts of the flowered hearts to come. My heart is quivering, beating too fast for my restive state, keeping me awake and feeling as night speeds away. My little flowered heart is waiting for other such bellowing tempests to calm into passagable winds, waiting for me to accept the change about to happen, and carry on with it to some shore it trust more readily than I do.

The Seed Moon will rise on Thursday, what do I wish to sow? The soil of my being feels as if it has been tilled over, twice, raked, forked, manured, and raked again. We always get to decide - that's such a grand part of our business here on earth, to decide for good, make conscious a choice for what is better simply because it is better. Now weigh the seeds. Heavy, hearty fodder; passive climbing, delicate flowers; straight, springy, snappy young trees; quiet, secret healing shrubs; patiently searching, hidden tubers. Choices. I see so many different ways to be before me, and realize my best decisions have been made without considered planning, without a mind fixated upon a palpable goal. This gives new meaning to song lyrics I used to take in such a specific, idealized way: "...going where the wind goes, blooming like a red rose, breathing more freely...", and gives ever more weight to the admonishment to live in the present. Live in the present, and let go of what you think you are, to make room for what you can be.