The White Room

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 sleepless

The truth is bald and cold
Said the woman
Who always wore white
She didn't leave her room

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 described 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