Blesséd are these people,

For they will get something.

Sometime.

Eleven verses of that

And I can see it's meant to comfort

But right now

I can't reach the comfort.

I can see it

But the comfort's too far

So someone—

Give it a push

And help me get it.

I read it every year

Eleven whole verses

And hundreds more elsewhere.

And they're great to read

They tell you that there is comfort-

But I can't reach it.

It's too far away

Across space and time

Too far away.

"Just start reading"

Well, I do.

At least, when I have time

But that's a different poem.

The words wash over me

But not into me.

Their message is as plain as day.

Why, then, does it feel

As if it doesn't apply to me?

As if for someone thousands of years ago?

Their comfort:

It eludes me.

The words now mean nothing.

So intangible

So not for me

Though some insist they are.

And now I understand.

It hits me hard,

Like a freight train.

Before it was so easy to

Just rattle off some verses

And for some naive reason

I didn't understand

Why they rejected it.

But now it hits me

Like Wile E. Coyote and an anvil.

Why.

And I get it

Because at this point

It means nothing.

They're just words

On a page.

Not mine.

Just a story.

Just words

On a page.