honey and sting

Methos envies the Spring
for the artless grace with which
the tiny green leaf unfurls,
for the cleansing of the rains,
for the nuanced gradation of light
into something tender and delicate.

His rebirth is a more cruel preposition.
Life skewers him like a spear,
piths him on the spike
of awakening. Rends him with life,
until he is weary and dissolute.

Still, he'll take it.
Every time.