Tell Us What You Make of This

Anything you understand
Is something you made more than
Whatever language it was

By which you understood it.
We wish it were otherwise,
That each of us was hoarded

Treasure locked up in our chests,
Meanings our precious contents,
You just the discoverers.

But it’s not. You make us more.
We can absorb what you make,
As your imagination,

From your side, can enchant us.
But we’re gravel, wayside dust.