How True They Trimmed the Well of Stone

How black the depths that were not wet,
Had not been wet in an age. Damp,
Yes, but not wet, much less a well

From which you could draw cups to drink.
But it still looked just like a well,
It was built so well of cut stone,

By those who lived near here and cut
Down the trees so they could plant wheat
In that gone age when they got here.

Know what their well is full of now?
Genes, seeds, burnt grains, dust—all the stuff
Of lives when the lives are long lost—

A few bone shards. A lot of dark.
They came, cut down. They sowed. They reaped.
How true they trimmed their well of stone.

They Did

The world made us to each make our own world.
We made our gods, and each god makes an us.
Which us are you? What’s it like in your world?

If you would like to know how this world goes,
You can, but not if you don’t ask, and not
Past the points where it comes to join your own.

As for the gods in it, they’re yours, your ghosts,
Your names you’ve learned or coined for each of them,
Your faith that they made you who makes your world.