She is no mother,
Nature.
She does what she will,
Surrounding us,
Nourishing us,
Without love.
She is free of intent;
No duty binds her,
Just the inbuilt
Instinct to survive –
Do what we will
We are nothing
To her,
Only
A scramble of warm
Blooded bodies
Running greedily amok
Until we run
Ourselves into exhaustion
In a world
We have depleted
Of all we need;
Until we run
Ourselves into extinction.
And the world will
Roll on and on,
On and on
Without us.
Written by Margaret Mair
Picture, original art by Margaret Mair
MairImages.ca Blog 
Your picture has a counterpart here in Mexico. On a covered verandah, someone planted a tree in a pot that is growing out into the street and the light. Thanks for this and your thoughtful verse.
Pictures often have counterparts, I’ve noticed – echoes somewhere out there. This time it’s because plants always reach for the light (a struggle for mine right now). We all should too, methinks.
Glad you enjoyed this work.
Grim, but quite possible, M. A strong poem. And I like that painting.
A possibility I hate to think of – which is why I talk about it. The painting came from a less dark place, a little bit of balance for my darker words. Glad you like it!
Well done!