Autumn On the San Marcos River
To live this close to
the consolation of moving water is
to be given the keys to a cathedral where
the day’s last light drifts down through the branches of bare trees
like mist, to the mirror of the surface
in silver and cerulean blue ripples reflected as if
stained glass windows made of clouds and sky
had fallen, softly shattered, from above. The air today
is fine, cool and crisp and dry, the smoky scent
of fallen leaves, the past, the hint of winter to come.
Yellow gold, the color of Van Gogh’s wheat fields
flashes like lightning beneath the surface
over limestone, sand and shadows.There is no greater beauty than what’s clear and cold.