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,
More and more dark houses
Hushed and abandoned.
.
There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The thought of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.
.
The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn’t leave her room much.
.
The sun pointed 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 describe as “perfect.”
.
Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins? 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.
/Charles Simic,The Book of Gods and Devils/
