New Wine
The parable was simple:
New wine needs new skin.
Pour the living into the living.
Do not ask the old to hold
what it was never made to bear.
There is a son who left.
In the wake, his father died,
the family he abandoned
became something else entirely.
The old wineskin that once held him
burst without him,
pursued its renewal without him,
became something new —
and he, in leaving,
became a new wine.
A bitter elixir, sharp as vinegar.
Yet the new wineskin awaits his return —
an open mouth, an active fresh embrace.
An invitation to soften.
Yet he does not know.
He delays his return
for fear of both being ruined.
The parable was simple:
New wine needs new skin.
Pour the living into the living.
Do not ask the old to hold
what it was never made to bear.
There is a son who left.
In the wake, his family
held open the door for his return —
held open the mouth of the old wineskin,
faithful, unchanged, waiting.
And he, in leaving, became a new wine —
sweet, alive, worth the drinking.
But the old wineskin, never having burst,
never renewed.
He sees this and knows
what the parable requires.
He delays his return
for fear of both being ruined.
