still

the book was open,
the sun was out.

a wind chime sang the breeze
in full notes of tranquility.
a few bees were busy
baptizing almond trees,
and the shade was sufficient,
the book lay heavy on the lap.
somewhere east of eden,
a sound, a threat, a dare,
a reminder, a fact in the air:
New machines still carry noise.

the book was closed,
the sun was out.

Keys (1928), Fernand Léger.