They cling to the velvety darkness above them, little silver pinpricks, listening for their cue,
for when they can explode in a burst of white-hot magnificence
to lead the way to our cabins
in the dead of the night.
The crickets have not yet sung among the Berkshire trees.
They remain quiet, silently waiting,
holding in their song until they can sing it for all of us,
with our friendship bracelet string and our duffels and our laughter
like the tinkle of bells.
The lake water has yet to ripple in the early-summer heat.
It has not been penetrated by a cannonball or pencil dive,
by the sound of screaming,
the good kind, the happy kind.
The dining hall is not yet filled
with loud conversation, utensils clinking against plates, chairs scraping the floor as we push them in.
The cabins are not yet unpacked,
bunk beds void of blankets and mattress pads,
shelves empty of notebooks and stationery and reminders of home.
There is no hint of a whisper in the breeze amongst the pine trees
We've been waiting for you all year,
but there will be
There will be
late nights huddled around a candle, whispering after lights-out,
early mornings setting the dining-hall table,
evenings, when the sky is purple-blue-black with dusk and we sing
a Chimney Corners day has passed away
underneath the earliest sliver of moon.
But for now,
none of the days have passed away,
and a summer of laughter and thunderstorms and sunlight and song
of tears and fights and friendship and love
is at my fingertips,
waiting to be immortalized in memories, in poems
in dreams in the dead of winter nights.