It is not the farmers fault.
They love the land.

It is not the burden of the little
towns and villages,
they love their portion of it.

It is not the school teacher
who told me to write and
it is not the burden of
the young lovers in the bush,
they’re too busy with the love.

You can hold a protester to the
fire and you can bend the farmer,
you can even break some of them.

It is not the ocean of bodies in
Guy Fawkes masks.
As much as you would like it
to be, they are not your terror’s source.

It is our mere, gargantuan size.
And there is nothing to do about it.

Nothing but wake,
shake a few more dreams onto the page,
and wish for more time,
fewer crowded shoppers,
more cyclists than two car homes,
less salt and more organic,
some sanity mixed into the
mad, mad shuffle of the mid-week
scourge on the soul,

and then to wake again,
on Saturday,
ready to divulge the daily secret
to whomever woke as well.

Here,
to know it is nobody’s fault,
but your own, but also that
the victors, the spoils and all that
other good stuff,
is yours as well.

Today’s epiphany, brought to you by
last night’s dreams.