Waiting - Augusta Skye

How many more farewells?
A brittle fan of bones,
Once your hand,
Waves across your face
Like a metronome slowing down.
The one good eye, still aquamarine
As a Turkish sea,
Cannot, thank God, see what
You've become.
Your greeting, for years so
Loud and full of declarations,
Is no more than a smudged, silent
Kiss on my hand.
Then you sleep again.
You don't remember how
You scoffed at old infirmity,
And never guessed in all
The years you entertained
How long it takes to die.