Today is New Year's Day,
time to ritually review
each week's reproduction
in my spent art calendar 
from The Metropolitan,
last year devoted to Oriental art.
I barely noticed the works as days
flittered past too swiftly 
to really look, yet here 
the seasons cycle again and again 
and days scroll by.
Wild waves roil, tipped 
with sparkle and froth
above darkest depths.
They must leap again and again.
The same snow-dressed peak
is ritualized, too, seen through 
a near branch with blossoms,
open and ready for insects
to dance about in pollen shoes. 
Centuries come and go
touched with dark calligraphy. 
I linger over each page.