I have asked the wisest
men and women
about these small things.
Some stare me down,
without so much as the courtesy
of a 'fare-thee-well'
and good-bye. Others look
extremely hurt,
zero in on me. Confused,
I withdraw.

Only one of these seers
treated me as an equal,
a man in his early forties
who spoke of the romance
of the rails, who still
bounded on the moving train
in St. Paul and rode all the way
to Portland. I'm not sure
what lesson he was meant to teach
me, unless it was just the good will
he conveyed, the hope he engendered.

One Sunday in June, I crossed
paths with MONICA, a young seer
in a bright yellow summer dress,
in a garden in Golden Valley
I had never before entered.
Before I could speak, she said,
'You're not ready for the small
things, much less the Cascade
of Light. Here, read this. Begin
now! ' She handed me a manuscript
that was handwritten, the cover
page was beautifully inscribed,
'The Book of the Sun' by Marsilio
Ficino. 'I know this, I've read
this, ' I responded excitedly.
'No you have not. You only
acquired your eyes today.' Her
face was beautiful and stern.
'Read it. We will meet again.'
And then there was only yellow
light where she had just stood
in her summer loveliness. I was
bereft, but in my hands was the
'The Book of the Sun'. I sat
down on a bench by a fountain,
and commenced reading with my
new eyes in my new life...
Deep within, I heard Monica's
voice, now sweet and gentle,
'Don't stare at my face, Daniel.
Look deeply within. Poetry is
not the surface of things, it
is.... '

Daniel Brick

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-new-life-second-stage-for-marie/