MindWraith

There in the glade, a willow
spills her joy in the wind
shaking left and right like a slow dream
It spreads through the underbrush
a hush, a spell that beckons  
and a roe nimbly floats through
the soft curtain of quiet rain
And I sit on a bench, entranced,
a specter, ghostly figure
who forgets that he is 
part
of the masterpiece.