Georgia at midwinter

The bird in the plant-pot bobs its head,
it's seeking something, needs to get its food;
a creature of the season, deep brown-hued,
it brings with it cheerfulness not dread.
Still there's a flower, the last one in the bed,
a promise that the year will be renewed
though cold and raw; stuck here in the feud
between the years, we seek for better hope.
Another turn, and the year will be done
and all our promises set to begin again.
We see the season moving up the slope
with certainty that soon we'll see the sun
and spring will open for us clear and plain.