On Closing the Apartment of My Grandparents of Blessed Memory

And then I stood for the last time in that room.

The key was in my hand. I held my ground,

and listened to the quiet that was like a sound,

and saw how the long sun of winter afternoon

fell slantwise on the floorboards, making bloom

the grain in the blond wood. (All that they owned

was once contained here.) At the window moaned

a splinter of wind. I would be going soon.

I would be going soon; but first I stood,

hearing the years turn in that emptied place

whose fullness echoed. Whose familiar smell,

of a tranquil life, lived simply, clung like a mood

or a long-loved melody there. A lingering grace.

Then I locked up, and rang the janitor's bell.