by Ren Miller

I meet him on the Appalachian Trail at age 60, when I’m certain I’ll never love again. We sleep in a single sleeping bag, eat ramen from a tiny pot, swim naked in icy streams, forage for wild mushrooms, make love on top of mountains. His smell intoxicates me, a mixture of forest and sunshine. My desire for him is dizzying. We write haikus to one another. We hold a handfasting. I call him my beautiful human. He says to me, you are my path now. We can’t remember what life was like before this. Before us.