Here's a poem I wrote many years ago. I'm sure some of you feel the same way.
How desolate, exposed, the living room . . .
Our customary spruce out by the curb,
how green of me to think, expect, presume
that I’d feel festive as a Hallmark blurb
this time. No elders at the fireside,
I sigh, no kneeling oxen. It is clear
I failed again, although I really tried
to trim my tree sufficiently this year.
In January’s pallid, lifeless light,
with April pending like a clockwork star,
the Magi gone, the family in flight,
I value sugar-plums for what they are.
Yet I shall pack each ornament with care
and stock up on some half-priced angel hair.