The obvious is difficult <br />To prove. Many prefer <br />The hidden. I did, too. <br />I listened to the trees. <br /> <br />They had a secret <br />Which they were about to <br />Make known to me-- <br />And then didn't. <br /> <br />Summer came. Each tree <br />On my street had its own <br />Scheherazade. My nights <br />Were a part of their wild <br /> <br />Storytelling. We were <br />Entering dark houses, <br />Always more dark houses, <br />Hushed and abandoned. <br /> <br />There was someone with eyes closed <br />On the upper floors. <br />The fear of it, and the wonder, <br />Kept me sleepless. <br /> <br />The truth is bald and cold, <br />Said the woman <br />Who always wore white. <br />She didn't leave her room. <br /> <br />The sun pointed to one or two <br />Things that had survived <br />The long night intact. <br />The simplest things, <br /> <br />Difficult in their obviousness. <br />They made no noise. <br />It was the kind of day <br />People described as "perfect." <br /> <br />Gods disguising themselves <br />As black hairpins, a hand-mirror, <br />A comb with a tooth missing? <br />No! That wasn't it. <br /> <br />Just things as they are, <br />Unblinking, lying mute <br />In that bright light-- <br />And the trees waiting for the night.<br /><br />Charles Simic<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-white-room/
