New Wine

We die not for love of  Wisdom,
nor for the cool comfort of dark closure
that creeps up and snatches
the aged from their cradles.
Yet, a dying choice proves sweeter
than the giddy ball of this age that spins
and twirls its way into madness--
a madness that finds no asylum.

We dress instead in beggar's rags
and are dragged from distant byways
into grace's feast. We die united
to the Feastgiver, to the Winemaker,
to the Vinedresser who reaps and tramples
once all the nations have ripened--
when all the laughter ends--
and begins anew.