A child of my right hand
walked among the sheep
and a child of my left hand
drove the plow--
they were brothers, sons
of the self-
same mother,
no two more alike
than each other, fraught
with the pain of too little
and too much, with the pain
of too much and too little.
The god chose meat
instead of fruit
and the child
of my left hand rose up
to kill the other,
the child of my left hand,
the farmer, slew his brother,
the shepherd, in fury.
The god chose meat
instead of fruit
and the earth was stained
forever--
stained with the pain
of too little and too late,
with the pain of too late
and too little.
When you sleep in your chair
by the firelight, when you wake
in the morning and hear
the geese returning,
think of the child,
your father,
who drove the plow,
and was drive to depair,
the despair of too much
and too little,
the despair of seasons,
too little and too late.
Think of the child,
your father,
think of the mother,
your child.
-Susan Stewart
