Selective Sight

Some days, I see the dying trees

The forest wavers fragile in the air
Cedars, lodgepole pines, a touch of aspens
Many more than nature’s norm are doomed
Some bark is gone, some branches bare

On those dying days, my soul will creak
Sensing disease and bugs will take them all
Climate will inflame, decay will be acute
And the woodland shifts to barren and bleak

Other days, I note the thriving trees

As they breathe life into the world, my spirits lift
I foresee the forest growing green and dense
As once again the timeless copse adapts
The world rebounds and renews its gift

Too often, I view life with this vision bipolar
Swinging between the grim and the bright
Accepting matters as beyond our control
As though we have no role to take actions sober

On the best days, I decide to act

To play a part, I grab the saw
To fell the dead and mount in stacks
Then plant healthy saplings in their place
So tomorrow's children can enjoy the awe