Selective Sight

Some days, I see the dying trees

The forest wavers fragile in the airCedars, lodgepole pines, a touch of aspensMany more than nature’s norm are doomedSome bark is gone, some branches bare

On those dying days, my soul will creakSensing disease and bugs will take them allClimate will inflame, decay will be acuteAnd the woodland shifts to barren and bleak

Other days, I note the thriving trees

As they breathe life into the world, my spirits liftI foresee the forest growing green and denseAs once again the timeless copse adaptsThe world rebounds and renews its gift

Too often, I view life with this vision bipolarSwinging between the grim and the brightAccepting matters as beyond our controlAs though we have no role to take actions sober

On the best days, I decide to act

To play a part, I grab the sawTo fell the dead and mount in stacksThen plant healthy saplings in their placeSo tomorrow's children can enjoy the awe