A Story

A Parable for Poets

By Rachel Dunstan Muller

There were once two sisters. The first loved money, so she became a merchant.

The second loved the “splendour of the world,” so, naturally, she became a poet.

The merchant was very good at what she did—buying and selling things—and she became wealthy. The poet was also good at what she did—composing beautiful verse—and she stayed poor.

This was a point of contention between them. The merchant was forever chastising her younger sister for how little she had to show for her “pretty little rhymes.”

But the poet would just shrug. “You collect coins, I collect words. My load is easier to carry.”

One evening the merchant invited the poet to dinner so she could show off her wealth. While they were waiting between one rich course and the next, the merchant led her sister over to the window. “Look out there,” she boasted. “It’s all mine, as far as the eye can see! Those acres of barley? They grow to fill my bushel baskets. Those peasants bending low over the fields? They labour for me!”

The poet looked out the window and agreed: it was an impressive sight. But secretly she also saw how little actually belonged to her sister. The wind and the clouds and the birds belonged only to themselves. The barley didn’t grow to fill her sister’s baskets; it grew because the rain and the sun coaxed it up. And the peasants? They didn’t really labour for her sister; they worked to feed themselves and their children.

The poet went home and wrote a poem about it, and the merchant went to bed early—with mild indigestion.

In the end both sisters lived long lives, and then died.

The older sister was buried under a big stone monument.

The younger sister was buried under a smaller stone.

And the rain fell and the sun shone on both their graves.

By Rachel Dunstan Muller. Copyright 2019; all rights reserved.