The raintrees' dance takes lifetimes, years
longer than our music, passing in quick step,
is sovereign to itself, oblivious
of events and, by its own slow grace,
 
          invisible. At this edge of the estate  
          they rise at arms' length, toes to the line
          to keep every heel and turn,
          so practiced are they in their variations  
 
that even now, in the silence of the rails
their branches still stretch by habit
across the aisle. Forgetting themselves,
each comes within a breath of another's crown
 
          then stops, carrying in its spread fingers' shade
          an imprint of the next living thing, as sky
          cracks open unannounced, a bare
          blue river in between. Nothing wanes
 
this force of life in them. More than
time has covered the tracks, and on either side
saved for a while, a seam of someone else's
land unfolds into green. No wonder
 
          the quiet still kneels to meet us here,
          a sanctuary so familiar. We walk
          with an unaccustomed ease, not touching.
          Our joy is the joy of trees.