How I dreamed about death before I became a father, and how I dream about it now

I used to conjure wide, pelagic dooms,

one becoming zero in the blue deep:

or spinning in a slow tomb between stars,

a particle in silence, gone where no

man is man any more. Now, when I dream

of death, I am spreading my arms on the

forest floor, fingers fossicking among

twigs and dry leaves, wrapping soft bones around

roots of oak and hazel. I repurpose

capillaries, stretching tendrils into

earth, making of myself mycelium:

whispering mineral songs on tender strings

passing secrets among trees. I disperse,

know much, am blind, slow, patient, nourishing.