This year, by the same force that commands moss to grow over the damp echoes of wells, I am given the gift of marveling at the world’s creation anew. To bite into the warm evenings of late spring scented with blossoms, to turn them in my hands carefully like the fruit of knowledge in Hawa’s hands, to fall silent in awe at the hushed conversation of two, murmured into the golden night.

Swallow me, O Nun, and in the dark this June night will be my North Star.