by Charles Simic

    The obvious is difficult

    To prove. Many prefer

    The hidden. I did， too.

    I listened to the trees.

    They had a secret

    Which they were about to

    Make known to me——

    And then didn't.

    Summer came. Each tree

    On my street had its own

    Scheherazade. My nights

    Were a part of their wild

    Storytelling. We were

    Entering dark houses，

    Always more dark houses，

    Hushed and abandoned.

    There was someone with eyes closed

    On the upper floors.

    The fear of it， and the wonder，

    Kept me sleepless¹.

    The truth is bald and cold，

    Said the woman

    Who always wore white.

    She didn't leave her room.

    The sun pointed² to one or two

    Things that had survived

    The long night intact.

    The simplest things，

    Difficult in their obviousness.

    They made no noise.

    It was the kind of day

    People described as "perfect."

    Gods disguising themselves

    As black hairpins³， a hand-mirror，

    A comb with a tooth missing？

    No！ That wasn't it.

    Just things as they are，

    Unblinking， lying mute

    In that bright light——

    And the trees waiting for the night.

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