Old Skin

by Pavel Chichikov

Seventy, he says, we're at an impasse

Seven decades, then it's patches, only patches –

Old wine skin so frail and thin

Who could pour more grace inside,

The strength would burst his skin

And then a ruddy end

The vessel is a brittle one

Thinks it may not hold too many pints

Of God's own blood

Old skin unsupple, fragile, almost worn

Why should you be sewn and sewn again –

Why were you born

To be this way, to fear, then never more?

Will you be dashed against the ground

Or only poured?

Sourness poured out again, a bitter waste?

Or does the savior sniff the goodly wine of Him

And sip, and taste?

Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.