I have asked the wisest br men and women br about these small things. br Some stare me down, br without so much as the courtesy br of a 'fare-thee-well' br and good-bye. Others look br extremely hurt, br zero in on me. Confused, br I withdraw. br br Only one of these seers br treated me as an equal, br a man in his early forties br who spoke of the romance br of the rails, who still br bounded on the moving train br in St. Paul and rode all the way br to Portland. I'm not sure br what lesson he was meant to teach br me, unless it was just the good will br he conveyed, the hope he engendered. br br One Sunday in June, I crossed br paths with MONICA, a young seer br in a bright yellow summer dress, br in a garden in Golden Valley br I had never before entered. br Before I could speak, she said, br 'You're not ready for the small br things, much less the Cascade br of Light. Here, read this. Begin br now! ' She handed me a manuscript br that was handwritten, the cover br page was beautifully inscribed, br 'The Book of the Sun' by Marsilio br Ficino. 'I know this, I've read br this, ' I responded excitedly. br 'No you have not. You only br acquired your eyes today.' Her br face was beautiful and stern. br 'Read it. We will meet again.' br And then there was only yellow br light where she had just stood br in her summer loveliness. I was br bereft, but in my hands was the br 'The Book of the Sun'. I sat br down on a bench by a fountain, br and commenced reading with my br new eyes in my new life... br Deep within, I heard Monica's br voice, now sweet and gentle, br 'Don't stare at my face, Daniel. br Look deeply within. Poetry is br not the surface of things, it br is....