I spent yesterday waiting for rain
again, while the sun hardened
the ground another degree, a little
further down and birds I didn't recognize
sang for someone else. The air grew
heavy like on August mornings
at the beach, thick enough to touch
and loud with distant rumblings.
I have lost count of how many times
we sat on the porch waiting for
the haze to lift, waiting for the sea
to make itself seen instead of
simply heard. Do you remember?
Droplets gathered from nowhere.
Forgotten laundry weighed down
the line, touched the ground like
a prayer, like a sailor returned.
We could taste the ocean on our
mouths while we waited, every day,
to see what would burn and what
would fall. It was like that yesterday,
a little, the humidity and the waiting,
and if the air here is missing the salt,
I didn't notice, or at least not much.
Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her recent work is appearing or forthcoming in Adanna, The Bellingham Review, Yemassee, and Weave, among others, and her chapbook Dear Turquoise is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. She serves as Managing Editor for Cider Press Review.