Late Meadowlark

We know the meaning when we read the signs
in sumac leaves but still abides the wish
to halt leaf fall, to sweep the frost from grass,
and beckon back the winging flocks
that waver from sight.

But look, look here, here in the yard,
alone, unafraid, in a stack of straw,
a meadowlark crouches and tries its tune
as if one voice whose truth is summer
could strike its pitch and sing back days
born of the sun. I smile, of course,
for birdlike faith, but even I,
calendar read and learned in texts,
hearing this song find my taste hungers
on autumn’s table for a peach out of season.