this spring

Let her be. She ran a long way, / the hunting pack at her heels. / She ran from dawn to past noonday / before the pack at her heels. / The hunters never came near her / even at the last. / The end of desire dared her / and she did not let it past. / From dark to deep brightness gone, / from racing to rest, / we may not idly mourn / her whose brightness blessed. / Let her quit body be / whose light runs free.
—  Marie Ponsot, from Springing: New and Selected Poems; “To Forbid Grief”