Austin Robert Smith

Coming Off an SSRI
 
As bad as I feel, it feels good
To feel again. This dead oak I would
 
Have walked by before without giving it
A second thought, I must go up to it
 
Now and run my hand along its dead gray
Face, which looks in all directions, and say
 
A prayer for it. Standing under its limbs,
I understand it. I had no autumn
 
Sorrow myself, no spring joy. Everything
Seemed the same. I was through putting on rings
 
Too. In the leafless branches of my brain
Perched whole flocks of chemicals, but none sang.
 
As bad as I feel, it feels good
To feel. My prayer: that this oak, dead, could.